


Quriosity

by dr_girlfriend



Series: Quriosity Verse [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Action/Adventure, Drama, Feels, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, I Promise Never to Leave a Work Unfinished, It Takes a While but Things Do Get Smutty, M/M, Not Gonna Tag Every Sex Act Just Trust Me There's Plenty, Post-Skyfall, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 79,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>COMPLETE!  Bond finds himself increasingly curious about his enigmatic Quartermaster.</p><p>Excerpt:</p><p>"Your prior hotel is no longer secure, I will direct you to a new location. Your luggage has already been transferred. A field agent and medic from the Diréction Générale de la Sécurité d'État will be waiting at the side entrance. I have cleared them both personally." In contrast to his crisp dry English, Q's pronunciation of the French words was fluid and flawless, the throaty tone of the fricatives sending a surprising jolt of awareness straight to Bond's cock — all the more remarkable given his degree of blood loss.</p><p>"You're wasted on Q-branch, you have the voice for a phone-sex call-in line." The words slipped out of Bond's mouth without forethought, although he had plenty of time to think in the sudden pause that came afterward and stretched on for endless moments. Bond hadn't realized until now how Q was always there, with an immediate reply. In all their banter Q had never before been at a loss for words. Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Shock

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Quriosity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5588344) by [WISSY_G](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WISSY_G/pseuds/WISSY_G)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Quriosity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11549631) by [JoceLyn007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoceLyn007/pseuds/JoceLyn007)



> NOTE: Themes related to dubcon/past noncon in here. Definitely not explicit descriptions, but if you're especially alert to discussion of noncon, give it a miss. Ignore the "Part 1," this is a complete story, with a planned mini-sequel in the same universe.
> 
> I write fanfiction for fandom spaces. Please do not add my fics to Goodreads or other indexing sites, excerpt them for press, or in other ways share them outside of fandom spaces. Thanks!

Cover art illustration by the amazing [teaandbbc](http://teaandbbc.tumblr.com) on tumblr:

"At the next hallway turn...um...left — no, right — um, wait, just a second, 007, I'm checking..."

Bond skidded to a stop, panting. His whole body was flushed with adrenaline and rage, and he just barely controlled the urge to take the earwig out of his ear and stomp on it heavily.

"Just bloody  _decide_..." he started to growl, but before he could say any more a different voice interrupted the line, refreshingly crisp and decisive.

"...and next time call me  _before_  it goes tits up..." the voice was saying witheringly as it faded in, the acerbic tones paradoxically calming Bond instantly, dissipating the red haze of frustration that had been clouding his brain.

"007," Q said, his voice calm and even in Bond's ear. "Sitrep."

"Objective secured. Need an exit," Bond answered, hoping his sigh of relief was not loud enough to be audible to Q. God knows the young pup was arrogant enough. "Flesh wound to the thigh, mobility slightly impaired. Two bullets remaining, out of clips. And for god's sake sack that other babbling idiot."

"He will be dealt with," Q said in that clipped way of his that no doubt had the hapless field support agent's balls shriveling. "In the meantime, let's press on, shall we? Turn left, second door on the right, one flight down. I'm afraid there are two at the bottom of the stairs, make your bullets count, why don't you?"

"Thanks for the helpful tip," Bond gritted out, the stab wound in his thigh screaming at him as he pounded down the stairs. Speed was more important than stealth at this point, with every goon in the building looking for him now and more escape routes being cut off every second.

His first shot was clean but the second man charged as he was firing and it was somewhat messier, Bond's bullet landing in his shoulder. A brief but intense bout of hand-to-hand combat left Bond standing over a second body, battered but victorious.

"Another coming around the corner in five seconds. Listen, 007, do  _not_  throw your Walther, do you hear me?  _Do not throw your Walther._ "

Bond threw his Walther. "Missed," he grunted.

"Dammit, Bond." Q's voice was a perfectly-balanced blend of aggravation and resignation. "The corpse on your left has a knife in a sheath at the small of his back, throw that instead why don't you?"

The other man had ducked back behind the corner, giving Bond time to pull the knife from the corpse and weigh it consideringly in his hand.

"Doesn't have the right balance, does it?" Q said, making Bond wonder exactly how good the resolution was on the CCTV system he had hacked into. "Never mind, reinforcements have arrived and these ones are actually armed, so back into the stairwell you pop. One more storey down."

A thud of bullets hit the stairwell door as Bond ducked back down it.

"Turn right, fire axe on the wall seven metres down on the left-hand side."

"Got it." Bond tucked the hunting knife into his belt and hefted the axe.

"Four doors down on the left, the door with the electronic lock —  _don't smash it, you heathen!"_

Bond froze with the axe raised over his shoulder.

"It's an  _electronic_  lock, I've already opened it for you," Q hissed.

Bond twisted the knob and sure enough the door opened smoothly.

"Four conduits along the left-hand wall. Cut the second from the left."

Without hesitation Bond smashed the axe into the conduits. A fire alarm immediately began blaring.

"Mmm...good." He could hear the furious tip-tap of Q's fingers on his keyboard. "I've set all the fire doors to lock rather than unlock by default. We should have our run of the place now. Two doors down, on the right. Into that office, check the desk."

Bond raised an eyebrow at the title under the name on the door:  _Chef de la sécurité_. Bond rummaged through the desk drawers. "Just clips, no weapon."

"Of course not, 007, he's out chasing you, he'd hardly leave his primary firearm behind." Q's eye-roll was practically audible. "Keep looking."

Bond rummaged through the right-hand drawers. "Oh wait, a Taser. That's something."

"Indeed." Q's voice was dry. "Take the clips as well, there's a good lad. And oh look, 9 millimeter, they would have been perfectly compatible with your Walther, may I point out, had you  _not thrown it like a sodding boomerang..._ "

"Temper, Q."

"Turn right down the hall, then left at the next corridor. I'll open the fire door as you get there."

Bond raced along a labyrinth of corridors at Q's command, fire doors magically unlocking as he approached each one.

"Stairs on your right, up you go, one flight."

"Admit it, Q," Bond panted. "You're just trying to make sure I get in my cardio for today." He concentrated on Q's voice, trying to block out the throbbing pain in his thigh, but he stumbled nonetheless, having to lean heavily against the metal stair rail as his head swam for a moment. Dammit, he must be losing blood faster than he had thought.

"Almost there, 007." There was a note of strain in Q's voice, and Bond's eyes automatically locked on to the CCTV in the stairwell. He imagined Q, standing before his bank of monitors at HQ, long pale fingers flying over his keyboard as he watched over Bond, and the thought was strangely heartening.

"In, oh, 17 minutes you'll be back in the tender arms of MI6, I assure you," Q said, his voice wiped clean of any emotion now. "Arm the Taser now."

Bond gritted his teeth, nodded once, and pressed the button on the Taser, feeling it hum to life as he shoved himself bodily up the last few stairs and into the corridor.

"Now this is the tricky part," Q said, ignoring the answering snort of derision from Bond. "Fire door on the left. I'm going to open it in seven seconds. Stand directly behind it as it opens and immediately fire the Taser at the hallway floor inside, understand? Four, three, two, one..."

 _What the sodding hell is he up to?_ Bond wondered, but obediently shifted the Taser to his left hand.

The lock on the fire door clicked and Bond twisted the knob with his right hand, pulling. The door opened with a wet, sucking sound.  _Ah,_  Bond thought, hitting the trigger on the Taser just as a stream of water rushed past.

The Taser hummed and jerked in his hand, immediately followed by the splashy thump of bodies hitting the wet ground.

"All clear, Bond, in you go. And — oh, look! You'll be passing your Walther in about six metres, do pick it up, why don't you?"

Bond ground his teeth at Q's obviously sham tone of surprise. "Q," he growled, his voice arctically cold. "Did you send me in a giant sodding  _circle_  just so I could retrieve your tech?"

"Nonsense, 007. We accomplished several objectives en route, this is just a happy coincidence. Besides, you'll need it in a moment."

The sprinklers were still drizzling desultorily as Bond splashed down the hallway, Q obviously having inactivated them only moments before. Bond wiped a forearm across his eyes, squinting against the drips before spying his Walther on the ground. Precisely six metres ahead, no doubt, only partially obscured by the limp body of one of the electrocuted goons.

"Will it still work?" Bond asked, scooping it up and snapping in one of the new magazines.

"O ye of little faith," Q said drily. "Waterproof  _and_  insulated against electrical charges, thank you very much," he said unnecessarily, as the palmprint recognition light had already turned a welcoming green. "Down the hall now, two lefts, to the freight elevator." Bond pounded down the endless corridors.

"...Which is why you shouldn't just  _chuck it away_  on a whim..." Q added, as if continuing his prior thought.

"Enough nagging, Q, or I'll be throwing it at  _your_  head next."

"Hardly a potent threat, 007, as I've already seen how abominable your aim is..."

Bond huffed a soft laugh despite himself as he jammed the button for the freight elevator, hearing it whir to life regardless of the fire lockdown. "That's a thought, Q," he said. "Maybe if you weight it like a boomerang it'll come back to me, and you'll up your odds of having your tech returned."

"Smartarse," Q said absently. His voice grew crisp again. "The elevator will open into the loading dock on the ground floor. There are two down there, as well as a delivery truck. Hard to get a clean angle, but I believe the keys are in the ignition. If not, I am assured that you are a dab hand at hot-wiring."

"Indeed." The freight elevator doors creaked slowly open and Bond ducked inside, hitting the button for the ground floor.

"Wouldn't work anyway," Q said thoughtfully.

"Hmm?"

"Weighting your Walther to return to you like a boomerang, the weight would constantly be changing as rounds are released..."

"It was a  _joke_ , Q."

"I suppose there could be a spring-loaded counterweight...here we are then, two baddies, one at your eleven o'clock, one at your nine o'clock. They don't seem to know what's going on, weapons not even drawn, although they are both armed..."

Q fell into radio silence as Bond took them out with two clean shots.

"Button to open the loading dock door on your left, the big green one," Q supplied helpfullly.

"Now  _that_  I would have been able to figure out for myself," Bond grumbled.

Bond levered himself up into the seat of the delivery truck, trying not to grunt in relief at finally being able to sit down. He turned the key in the ignition and fumbled for the handbrake with blood-smeared hands.

"Really, Q,  _'baddies'_?" he remarked, throwing the truck into gear.

"If there's a term you prefer, I'll make a note in your file," Q said placidly. "Turn right, and then left at the fork. The exterior gates, sadly, are a closed-loop system to each guard booth, so you're going straight through. I trust your truck has the necessary weight to prevail in that confrontation."

"Well, we'll find out, won't we." Bond couldn't help flinching as it hit, but the truck crashed merrily through and down the gravel road.

"Your prior hotel is no longer secure, I will direct you to a new location. Your luggage has already been transferred. A field agent and medic from the Diréction Générale de la Sécurité d'État will be waiting at the side entrance. I have cleared them both personally." In contrast to his crisp dry English, Q's pronunciation of the French words was fluid and flawless, the throaty tone of the fricatives sending a surprising jolt of awareness straight to Bond's cock — all the more remarkable given his degree of blood loss.

"You're wasted on Q-branch, you have the voice for a phone-sex call-in line." The words slipped out of Bond's mouth without forethought, although he had plenty of time to think in the sudden pause that came afterward and stretched on for endless moments. Bond hadn't realized until now how Q was always there, with an immediate reply. In all their banter Q had never before been at a loss for words. Ever.

"Q?" Bond had no idea what he was actually going to say next, and so he was relieved when Q interrupted.

"I'll keep that in mind should I need extra income on the side," Q said smoothly, although something in his voice sounded a little off. Instinctively Bond tried to analyze it. The enunciation of Q's already cut-glass voice seemed impossibly crisper, his usual unflappable demeanor now sounding simply...detached.

"I don't have satellite coverage of you right now, 007, are you woozy?" Q continued. "We disrupted communications at the facility and no one appears to be in pursuit. If you need to pull over I could scramble a retrieval team instead."

"I..." Bond felt his thoughts stutter, finding himself at a complete loss for once. Was Q trying to give him some kind of 'out' for what he had said? Why would he even  _need_  one, when everyone knew harmless flirtation came as naturally as breathing to Bond?

"I'm fine," he finally said firmly, his voice showing no trace of the riot of confusion in his head.

"Good." Q's voice turned brisk and businesslike. "I've booked you on Royal Air Maroc flight 281 from Maya-Maya Airport at 0305 hours. My apologies for the early flight, but best not to hang about. R will direct you the rest of the way. Safe travels, 007."

The line clicked softly.

"Q?"

"This is R, 007. I will be directing you from here. You have three kilometres until your next turn, is there anything else you require in the meantime?" The woman's voice was pleasant, and Bond had a vague impression of her from Q-Branch, a slight South-Asian woman with a warm smile.

"No." Bond gritted his teeth, driving on autopilot. He absolutely would not ask where Q had gone so suddenly. This was ridiculous. Why was he even giving it a second thought? And yet as R's voice guided him skillfully to the new hotel, Bond couldn't help but feel illogically, inexplicably guilty.

* * *

 


	2. The Instinct

[Author's Notes:  The first paragraph is a little homage to professorfangirl / lizeckhart, who drew me into this fandom, so if it reminds you of her amazing series Prowl, that's what I was going for.]

* * *

Bond slid stealthily into Q-Branch. Q was in his usual position facing the wall of monitors, his slender elegant back to the room, the inky chaos of his hair a dark punctuation above his pale and vulnerable nape. Bond took a moment to enjoy the view before prowling forward, trying to ensure that he remained directly at Q's back, approaching slowly and silently.

"Good afternoon, 007. How may I help you?" Q said without turning, his fingers on the keyboard never breaking rhythm for even a moment.

Bond instinctively checked the room for reflections that might have given him away, but as usual there was nothing, the glare-proof monitors facing Q revealing nothing but lines of code, the white-painted brick walls and archways incapable of mirroring Bond's position back to Q.

"It's downright spooky how you do that, Q," Bond said, resignedly moving around to Q's side. "Some day I'll figure it out."

The corner of Q's mouth quirked in the slightest smile. "Cultivating an air of omniscience is part of being a good Quartermaster, 007. It's excellent for morale," Q quipped as he pushed a metal box in Bond's direction. "Equipment, please."

Bond placed his gun, radio, and earwig into the metal tray. Q pulled the tray back towards him, tsking briefly over the condition of the Walther.

"You're tutting like a schoolmarm," Bond said.

The barest flash of stormy grey-green eyes over the top of Q's glasses revealed his pique before he turned his head back to one of the monitors, resuming his typing.

Bond stood steadily, not budging an inch, just watching Q work. Q lasted seven minutes, more than most would.

"Was there something else you needed, 007?" he said, his voice showing the barest hint of exasperation.

Bond smiled. A reaction,  _any_  reaction, from the unflappable Q was a victory in his book. "What are you working on?" he asked.

Q's brow furrowed slightly, but he began gesturing to various parts of the bank of monitors in turn. "Repelling attacks on our firewalls, gathering intel for 003's next mission, debugging the schematics for the second-generation digital lockpick, and analyzing the after-action report from 006's jaunt to Kazakhstan." He shot Bond a sharp look. "And, apparently, engaging in idle chit-chat with a double-oh who has nothing better to occupy him."

Bond just smiled, unperturbed. He stayed at Q's side for another ten minutes, in motionless silence, just because he could. Q worked steadily, his fingers dancing across his keyboard, his body moving and swaying almost imperceptibly like the conductor of some symphony audible only to himself. From time to time his eyes darted back to Bond suspiciously, but neither of them spoke again.

"Until tomorrow, Q," Bond finally said, the low rumble of his voice making Q jump. He saw Q open his mouth to argue — there was nothing Bond would require from Q-Branch until his next mission — but instead he compressed his mouth into a flat line and simply nodded.

"Goodbye, 007."

Bond ambled off to his physiotherapy appointment, feeling strangely content for reasons he couldn't even begin to explain.

* * *

On the second day, Bond carefully left his MI6 identification, with its embedded RFID, in a locker at the weight room. It took him almost an hour to make his way to Q-Branch, piggybacking on others' doorcode authorizations.

He was forced to loiter outside of Q-Branch for an additional ten minutes before one of the minions emerged. The poor man seemed to practically wet himself upon finding a double oh agent lurking outside, ready to pounce. He dropped a sheaf of papers, and Bond had to act quickly, dodging past the startled minion and the fluttering paperwork and sliding through the door just before it closed. He smiled with triumph, creeping up on Q once again, savoring his victory in advance.

"007," Q said, again without turning even a hair. "How kind of you to pay us another visit."

Bond practically growled in his frustration, moving around to Q's side again. "You know that if you're using my embedded trackers it's cheating."

Q cast a wry glance in Bond's direction. "By all means, please do not start carving out pieces of yourself before your next attempt. I do not activate localization of your trackers unless you are on mission." Q's expression became suddenly earnest. "I try to afford our agents at least a modicum of privacy on their off-time. I consider it the least we can do to repay their service."

Bond shifted, suddenly uncomfortable under that serious gaze. That earnest idealism seemed so at odds with the jaded persona Q typically presented. Bond himself had long since abandoned any illusions of personal privacy. His body and mind belonged to MI6, simple tools in their arsenal, to be used and exploited in any way that served queen and country until he was dead or damaged beyond usefulness.

"That's...actually quite considerate of you, Q." He hadn't realized until he said the words how true they were. It sent an odd flicker of warmth through Bond to know that Q understood how much of themselves the operatives sacrificed for their service, and that he tried to protect what little bit of their dignity fell within his small dominion.

Q's fingers stuttered on the keyboard, the barest tinge of pink coloring his cheekbones.  _God, the man was achingly transparent, for the slightest compliment to rattle him so_ , Bond thought. For some reason he liked that thought. After a life surrounded by professional liars, it was nice to be around someone who was bloody awful at deception.

Q cleared his throat. "004 has been called to Macau," he volunteered this time, gesturing at the monitors. "A long-time informant requested an emergency meet. She seems confident that it will be secure, but..."

He trailed off. Puzzlingly, the blush intensified.

"But...?" Bond prompted.

Q shrugged somewhat self-consciously. "I have a bad feeling about it. I've analyzed past communications from this informant, and something seems different this time, but I couldn't pin it down enough to satisfy 004. She's insistent upon meeting, and..."

Q stopped, his mouth twisting wryly as he shot a challenging glance at Bond. "I suppose you're about to tell me that I should trust the instincts of an experienced field agent. Possibly with a few additional aspersions cast upon my youth, inexperience, appearance, or some combination of the above."

"You should trust the instincts of an experienced field agent," Bond said, noting the shadow of disappointment that passed fleetingly through Q's eyes. "But not at the expense of your own," he finished, with a hint of a smile.

"Oh." Q's remarkable eyes blinked owlishly behind his glasses, startled. "Er...thanks."

He returned to his work. The silence was more companionable this time, Q seeming to have adjusted already to Bond's steady scrutiny. Bond could hardly make heads or tails of what Q was doing...windows of surveillance footage were mixed in with codes and maps and after-action reports dating back decades, but Q's eyes darted back and forth, appearing to absorb and integrate it all. It was quite intimidating, actually.

Bond considered himself intelligent. All double ohs had to be or they didn't survive, and quick — some might say rash — decisions were certainly one of his specialities. Nonetheless, watching Q work his magic, bouncing from data stream to data stream and apparently missing nothing, was a little humbling.

It was almost mesmerizing watching Q work — the sharp eyes behind the ridiculous glasses, the slender, elegant hands, the graceful curve of his spine. A minion approached in what appeared to be a well-rehearsed ritual, leaving a cup of tea at the very edge of Q's desk in that ridiculous Scrabble mug. Q paused his work and reached for it, snapping Bond out of his reverie. He glanced at his watch, surprised to find he had been standing there for more than half an hour.

"Goodbye, Q," he said gruffly, somewhat embarrassed.

"Mmmm...what?" Q was engrossed in the data again, and it was a long moment before he seemed to be able to pull himself free and focus on Bond. "Oh, yes, goodbye, 007."

* * *

Today Bond was testing the theory that Q had some sort of hypersensitive sense of smell. He spent an overly-long time in the showers, hoping to eliminate any scent of chlorine, sweat, shampoo, or aftershave. He padded out in a towel, finding 006 in the locker room, peeling off a sweat-soaked tracksuit.

"Did you hear about 004?" Alec asked casually.

"No," Bond said simply, knowing that Trevelyan would provide all the relevant details without further prompting.

"She had an informant, they'd been buddies since the late '90's when they were both stationed in the Macau field office."

"An emergency meet," Bond mused aloud, remembering.

"Turns out the informant was compromised," Alec said. "Q found out in the nick of time, aborted the rendezvous. Half the building blew, but she was already pulling back. Came out of it with just a few scrapes and bruises."

Bond stifled his smile.  _Good for Q._  Intellect was one thing, but good instincts were entirely another. It was reassuring to know their Quartermaster had both.

"Are you headed over to Q-Branch now?" Trevelyan asked unexpectedly.

"Probably. Why?"

"Tell Q thanks, from me. Margot's one of the good ones."

Bond nodded his agreement. He had only been on a few joint missions with 004, but she was, in fact, one of the best double ohs he knew. Stubborn, as they all were, but sharp and lively, with a wicked tongue.

"You've been spending a lot of time there lately," Trevelyan said, and only because Bond knew him so well could he detect the too-casual tone to his voice.

Bond hummed noncommittally, pulling his shirt on and buttoning it. "Something you want to say, Alec?"

He turned, and the two men regarded each other carefully. "He's a good Quartermaster," Alec finally said.

"Are you warning me off?" Bond asked, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

Alec smiled widely, but his green eyes remained sharp. "Just make sure you've thought it through. And — whichever way you go — don't fuck it up."

Bond nodded curtly. Alec gave him a nod in return, and ambled off toward the showers.

Bond was still a little ruffled by the time he made his way into Q-Branch. What did he even mean by asking Alec that — warning him off  _what_ , exactly? And what did Alec mean in return? It was not as if he were... _courting_  Q, or something. The whole idea was ridiculous. Bond didn't do relationships. He just wanted to get to know the enigmatic Quartermaster a little better, that was all.

Q was in his usual position, back to the room, but his typical stiff-backed posture was entirely absent, his shoulders rounded and head hanging wearily from the slender stem of his neck.

Bond narrowed his eyes, surprised to some extent by the fierce protective instinct Q's bedraggled condition incited within him. He moved forward as Q raised his head, pushing his glasses back up his nose, his back still to Bond.

"007," Q said, his voice weary. "How may I help you?"

Bond glanced over Q's wrinkled clothing — the same clothing he had been wearing yesterday, in fact — the atrocious trousers and homely jumper improved not at all by the crumpling they had received in the intervening hours.

"Did you go home at all?" he asked preemptively, already knowing the answer.

"I am fit for duty, if that is what you're asking," Q said, apparently trying for a prickly tone that was somewhat undermined by the wide-mouthed yawn he was unable to fully suppress.

"Who is on mission at present?" Bond asked, giving Q's assurance all the credence it deserved — in other words, exactly none.

"003 is en route to the Maldives..." Q began weakly.

"I saw him outside M's office this afternoon, which means he won't arrive until morning. Go home, Q."

Q bristled visibly. "I am perfectly capable of managing my own schedule, 007. I am simply avoiding rush hour on the Tube, and then I will be leaving, I can assure you."

Some of Bond's building tension eased. He recalled Q in his ear during the Silva disaster.

_[Welcome to rush hour on the Tube. Not something you'd know much about.]_

"Contrary to the opinion of certain upstart Quartermasters..." Bond stated sarcastically. "I do in fact have some experience with rush hour on the Tube. And it should have ended..." — Bond checked his watch — "At least an hour ago."

Q opened his mouth to argue, and then checked the time on his monitor. Bond almost laughed aloud at his obvious double-take. Q turned around slowly, no doubt taking in the many empty desks behind him. Apparently he had lost track of time while most of Q-Branch had cleared out for the evening.

Q ran a hand through his already-chaotic hair, ruffling it up to truly epic proportions. "Did you just stop by to mother-hen me, 007?" he asked in exasperation.

"No, in fact," Bond returned calmly. "In addition to testing out my latest hypothesis..."

"Which was what, exactly?" Q interrupted. The sharp eyes scanned Bond's form. They looked more hazel now in Q's exhausted state. "Oh, I see...olfaction, was it?"

Bond shrugged, a bit peeved to have had his theory deduced so easily.

"No super-sniffer here," Q said wryly. "Probably a blessing right now, I'm sure there's a bit of a pong to me at the moment."

" _As I was saying,"_  Bond said, "My other reason for stopping by was to pass along the gratitude of the other double ohs. That was a good catch for Margot."

"Oh." Q's cheekbones flushed again, just a bit. Bond continued to find it inexpressibly charming. "Er...tell them thank you. I mean, in return."

"I know what you mean." Bond couldn't supress his smile at Q's discomfiture. "So, share your secret then. Your uncanny ability to have eyes in the back of your head, and now 004's compromised informant. Psychic powers, is it?"

A shadow of sadness crossed Q's face. He turned away from Bond, beginning to tidy his desk, packing his personal items into a tatty-looking messenger bag. "If I were psychic, I would have seen Silva coming," he mumbled, almost too low for Bond to hear but with a strong undercurrent of emotion in the muffled tones.

"Q." Bond circled around to the front of Q's desk, even as Q continued to avoid his eyes. "No one blames you for that."

Q's gaze shot up, pinning Bond in place, his body suddenly whipcord tense. "Well then they are fools," Q said sharply. "Because I certainly blame myself."

Q continued to shove items into his bag with unnecessary force, speaking half to himself, self-loathing dripping from his words like acid. "They told me they installed a secondary closed-loop system, allowing for central disengagement from the network, but I should have checked it myself. It was just another of the hundred things to do on my list, and we set up in such a hurry, but I  _should_  have checked the code myself, I would have seen Silva's hack in  _seconds_..."

"Q." Bond put his hand on Q's shoulder. To his surprise Q startled, almost stumbling as he jerked back away from Bond's touch.

Bond looked at Q for a frozen moment and Q stared back, those hazel-green eyes wide behind the ridiculous glasses.

"Sorry," they both said at the same time — Bond with more of a question in his tone and Q with flustered weariness.

"I'm very tired," Q said, unnecessarily. "I didn't mean to burden you with all that about Silva. God knows you suffered more than just an injury to your pride."

Bond nodded, still trying to make sense of Q's odd reactions. "I meant what I said, Q. We could second-guess each other for the rest of our lives, and it wouldn't help. If Silva hadn't overstepped to hack China. If Boothroyd's cyanide capsule had worked. If I had recognized Silva's plan for what it was sooner. If M had left the inquiry when Tanner asked her to. It never ends."

He tried to put every ounce of the sincerity he felt into his voice. "You took over Q-Branch at the most chaotic time possible, still mourning the loss of your colleagues, and you did an admirable job. You are an excellent Quartermaster, Q, but you can and will make mistakes. It's messy out there in the field,  _always_ , and if you second-guess yourself you will burn out in no time. And that would be a shame for all involved."

Q regarded Bond seriously for a moment, and then finally nodded, some of the tension in his slender body easing. "Thank you, 007," he said quietly.

Bond shifted, a bit uncomfortable with the level of open emotion on display. "Come on. I'll walk you to the Tube."

"Thank you, 007, but no." Q"s smile was somewhat brittle. "I have a few more things to tie up here before I hand operations off to R."

"I can wait."

"Goodbye, 007." Q's voice was firm. "I do appreciate...you stopping by," he added, his voice gentling.

Bond set his jaw mutinously, but he could see Q would not be budged. "Goodnight, Q," he finally said, and walked briskly out of Q-Branch.

If Q noticed that 007 shadowed him from MI6 to the Tube station, he gave no sign.

* * *

 


	3. The Offense

The next day Alec waylaid Bond, luring him off to practice on the firing range, and so it was late evening by the time he wandered his way over to Q-Branch.

The branch was still buzzing with activity despite the late hour, and Bond could see Q practically banging on his keyboard, frustration in every line of his slim body.

Intensely curious as to what could cause such a reaction in the imperturbable Q, Bond ranged closer, listening in.

It seemed as if 003, MacMillan, had reached the Maldives, and was currently making an epic hash of his assignment. At first Q's voice remained calm and precise despite his obvious frustration, but as the situation unravelled his composure seemed to unravel with it.

Bond could only hear Q's half of the conversation, but it was evident that 003 was arguing with Q at every turn, intent on pursuing some personal vendetta instead of focusing on the primary objective.

MacMillan was one of the newest operatives, replacing the previous 003 who had met an untimely death at the wrong end of a machete earlier that year. Bond had only had limited interactions with the man, but his vague impression was of an arrogant prick, too occupied with his overblown sense of self-importance to learn from the other double ohs. Now Bond's impression was solidifying into certainty.

Q's usually perfectly-modulated voice was growing increasingly urgent as his crisp clear instructions devolved into futile arguments.

"Just...003, just  _listen_  to me. I can't help you if... _no_ , that is not the primary target. The data is what is important here, not the — he's just a courier."

Silence fell for a few minutes as 003 apparently continued to argue obstreperously. Q was flashing through satellite images and CCTV footage, apparently trying to get a better view of the situation. If Bond wasn't mistaken he was even accessing Instagram and Twitter, looking through tourist photos tagged for the Male fish marketplace.

"We have his face on video, we can track him..." Q said sharply, running one hand through his hair in aggravation while continuing to type one-handed with the other. "The drive is on the move, they are leaving the marketplace. If it gets uploaded there will be no hope of containing...003?  _003, report._ "

One of the many readouts on the screen flatlined, and for a moment Bond thought that MacMillan had been killed. He instinctively moved closer to Q, ready to comfort.

"Dammit, dammit,  _dammit!"_  Q expostulated, but his tone was pure anger. "He's pulled his earwig. We'll have to track the drive on CCTV, but the infrastructure is bloody awful down there. R, find us the closest field agent. We have an hour at the most, if it's not MI6 we may have to call in some favors from the Defence Intelligence Agency, and god knows they are not happy with us right now. Richard and Angela, start identifying data nodes. I'm stopping that data leak if I have to crash the servers on every damned reef and atoll in that time zone..."

Q wheeled around, almost running straight into Bond. Bond reached out to steady him just as Q backstepped abruptly.

"007," Q snapped. "Is there something you needed, or did you stop in as usual just to terrorize me?" His eyes were already darting past Bond. "R, do we have a field agent on site, or not? If I have to go begging to Lakshmi personally..."

Bond felt something sharp and cold twist in his chest. He took a deliberate step backwards. "Terrorize?" he repeated woodenly.

"What?" Q's grey-green eyes focused back on Bond, widening for just a moment before his expression grew shuttered.

" _Distract_ ," he said emphatically. "Are you just here to distract me or did you actually need something, because..."

"I have a retired agent on holiday in Thinadhoo," R called out. "Courtenay, former section chief of the Delhi field office, 2003 - 2011. On the line, ready for briefing."

Q closed his eyes briefly, sighing. "Mallory will have my head." He jabbed a button on his laptop. "Patch me through to his bluetooth, I'll guide him through. Maybe he can hide the drive in his bloody spade and bucket..."

Bond turned, coolly and silently, and left the room.

* * *

A week later Bond was taking out his frustrations in the form of endless laps in the MI6 swimming pool. His thigh was completely healed — well,  _almost_  completely healed, he acknowledged as a low, dull, throbbing began in the damaged muscle — and yet Medical was still refusing to clear him for active duty.

He hadn't been back to Q-Branch. Alec, however, had seemed determined to supply him with all the gossip, his voice warm with approval as he described Q's handling of the fallout. Nobody would have blamed Q if he had been out for 003's blood, but apparently his report of the whole debacle had been utterly professional in nature. Mallory, on the other hand, had been so incensed about having to call in a retired operative to retrieve the missing drive that he had accessed the audiologs. By the next morning MacMillan had been busted back down to field agent status and re-assigned, and had immediately resigned in a huff to do private security.

It had been hard enough to have to listen to Alec singing Q's praises at every turn, but now Alec was away on a new mission and the silence was even worse. Bond was still at headquarters every day, forced to do nothing but wait for his body to heal, recognizing that this time the healing was slower than the last, and the next time would be even slower still. Exercise and target practice could only occupy so much time per day, and Bond had often found himself wandering in the direction of Q-Branch before he stopped himself with stern self-recrimination. Now it was past midnight, and he was pushing his body to its limit, just to avoid returning to his soulless flat with nothing to do but to ruminate on those unexpected words.

_["Did you stop in as usual just to terrorize me?"]_

It was utterly ridiculous, how deeply those words had cut. Bloody hell, who was Q to him? A good Quartermaster, but that was all. As long as they worked well together professionally, what did he care what the man thought of him? And yet...for some reason Bond had thought that they were becoming friends.

Bond attacked the water with greater force, cutting through the calm surface, pushing off with a sharp twist at each end that sent a burn through his healing thigh. It was a rookie mistake — confusing the trust of a working relationship, of a shared mission, with true friendship. Q knew nothing of him, and he knew nothing of Q. And yet he had trusted Q, had gone where Q's voice pointed him without a second thought, and Bond was not someone who trusted easily. Q had wormed his way past Bond's defenses without Bond even realizing it, and then...

_["Did you stop in as usual just to terrorize me?"]_

They weren't becoming friends. Q didn't actually like Bond. In fact, going over everything, Bond could only conclude that Q actively disliked him. It was no surprise — it was probably not even anything about Bond in particular. In all likelihood the young Quartermaster was secretly horrified by all the double ohs. He used them as effective weapons, certainly, but no doubt all he saw when he looked at them was the killing machines they were.

_["Did you stop in as usual just to terrorize me?"]_

Bond finally pulled himself out of the swimming pool, exhausted and panting, a cramp forming in the torn muscle of his right thigh and underneath his ribs. He stood numbly under a warm shower, letting it wash away the sharp smell of chlorine and ease his aching body. Finally he wrapped a towel around his waist and padded to the locker room to change.

"Bond." Moneypenny was perched on the edge of the bench in the men's changing room, cool as you please, in a vivid orange sheath dress and some spectacularly violent-looking stilettos.

"Moneypenny," Bond returned placidly. He cast the towel away casually, opening his locker and reaching for his clothes.

Moneypenny leaned back on her arms, unashamedly taking in the view, producing an elaborate sigh of disappointment when Bond pulled on his pants. Bond quirked an eyebrow at her as he climbed into his trousers.

"You're needed," she said succinctly.

Bond started to push his belt through the loops. "A mission? I'm not cleared by Medical, but I'm sure Mallory can put in a word..."

"A mission, of a sort," Moneypenny said with a sly smile, and Bond paused, suspicious.

" _Of a sort,"_ he repeated skeptically. He pulled out his shirt and started to do up the buttons.

"Q has been here for 72 hours straight keeping 008's fat out of the fire in Hamburg," she finally said, apparently having teased Bond to her satisfaction. "Now the crisis is over and Mallory wants our best boffin transported home and tucked away in his jim-jams, and he says that you're the man for the job."

_Bloody hell,_  Bond thought. "I am almost certain that we have a car service for that sort of thing," he said sourly, shrugging into his shoulder holster.

Moneypenny grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Apparently Quartermaster-wrangling is not their bailiwick. Q is kicking about leaving, and Mallory thought you could make him see sense."

"Wonderful."  _Send in the big scary double oh to terrorize Q into submission. How appropriate._

"At your convenience," Moneypenny said. "But also now-ish."

Bond stowed his wallet in his pocket, and then after a moment's thought tossed his car keys to Moneypenny.

"Bring my car around. If I have to haul him out of here over my shoulder, you can open the door for me. Or the trunk. Depends on how difficult he's being."

Moneypenny twirled the keys on her finger with a wicked grin. "My pleasure."

Bond snorted. "Just try not to lose any mirrors on the way out of the parking garage."

* * *

Q sat in the passenger seat of Bond's car, his initial sulkiness already fading under the force of sheer exhaustion. His eyes were opening and closing owlishly, his body curled limply in the seat.

In the end it hadn't taken any physical coercion to get him in the car. By the time Bond had arrived at Q-Branch, R had already taken the initiative, threatening to revoke Q's network access for 24 hours if he didn't go home.

"I'll hack it back in seconds," Q had snapped in irritation.

R was soft-spoken and implacable. "Any other time, perhaps, but right now you couldn't code your way through Hello World."

Q reared back as if he had been slapped, but under the force of of R's steadfast gaze he began to look chastened. He sighed and turned to pack his bag.

When he saw Bond waiting to escort him home he had grumbled, "Oh,  _perfect_ ," but meekly followed him to his car. Neither of them had spoken since Q had given Bond his address to input into the GPS.

Q finally broke the silence. "I could have gone home on the Tube," he said somewhat plaintively.

"It's Sunday," Bond said tersely. "You missed the last train at 2330."

"Oh." Q gazed out the window for a few more minutes. Finally he sighed, turning back to face Bond. The streetlights reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes.

"I offended you last week. I'm sorry."

"Don't be ridiculous," Bond growled, a little too quickly perhaps.

Q shook his head stubbornly. "I was under stress and I spoke without thinking. I didn't...I didn't mean to stop you visiting Q-Branch."

Bond remained silent, telling himself he was not being at all petulant. He simply had nothing to say.

"I rather enjoyed your visits," Q finally said softly. "I don't know how to fix this."

"There's nothing to fix," Bond said firmly, and he hoped convincingly. "Everything is fine, Q."

Q made a skeptical noise, looking back out the window. The car filled oppressively with awkward silence once again .

"It's the camera on my laptop," Q said abruptly.

"What?" Bond flicked Q a puzzled glance, but he was still looking out the window.

"I modified the camera on my laptop with a fisheye lens, and wrote a facial recognition algorithm to account for the distortion. It's mapped onto MI6's directory. When someone approaches anywhere behind me, it displays their name in the title bar of the active window of the monitor bank, in a code of my own devising. If the person is not cleared by MI6, it flashes an alert. No one has noticed so far. Nobody ever pays attention to title bars, and if anyone did notice the change it would still look like gibberish."

"Oh." Bond thought about it for a moment, and chuckled despite himself. "That's...clever."

Q's forehead was pressed against the window, his eyes closed. His voice was slow and meditative when he spoke, as if he were thinking aloud. "I learned early in life to watch my own back, rather than trusting others to do it for me."

Bond shot him a sharp glance and Q suddenly seemed to rouse himself, straightening in the seat and running a hand through his hair self-consciously.

"I was developing it for use in the field," he said in a bit of a rush. "To allow an agent to surveil a room inconspicuously, but there are too many variables in real life to make it effective. Too many unknown faces. It would only be useful in seeking out a particular face, and in that case a small mirror would probably do just as well."

Bond smiled. "Is Q-Branch issuing stealth mirrors now? I might look a bit silly trying to powder my nose."

Q's laugh was rich and uninhibited, as delightful as it was unexpected. "You haven't read the Q-branch update emails. We pushed through an app that turns your mobile screen into a mirror. Much less obtrusive than having you touch up your lipstick mid-stakeout," he said dryly. Bond snickered in return.

The silence fell again, but it was easy this time, companionable. Q seemed to fall into a doze, only waking as Bond's car began rattling on the paving stones.

"What is this place?" Bond asked, pulling up in front of a huge wrought-iron gate. He could barely make out a squat brick building at the back of a cobblestone courtyard.

"It used to be a stables, and then a motor repair workshop," Q said, as they got out of the car. "It was abandoned for a few years — an excellent location, but it's registered as a historic landmark, so you can't change the visible exterior. No one wanted a building with no windows, full of heavy abandoned machining equipment." He smiled wryly. "Except me."

The gate had a complicated-looking digital lock. To Bond's surprise Q pulled a digital lockpick out of the pocket of his messenger bag, and applied it to the lock.

Q caught Bond's inquiring glance and shrugged self-consciously. "The code is a shifting algorithm based on the date and time, and honestly I can't be arsed to calculate it right now." He yawned heavily, waiting for the lockpick to finish. "R was right, my thinking is compromised," he acknowledged sheepishly.

The light on the lockpick turned green, and the gate started to roll back.

Q stepped to the other side. "Thank you, 007, for the ride home. I do appreciate it, for all my complaining."

"Any time, Q," Bond said surprised to find he meant it.

Q fiddled with something on the other side. The heavy gate began to scrape closed as Q started toward the building.

"Q?"

Q turned again, facing Bond through the wrought-iron spikes as the gate clanged shut. His pale skin and dark hair were thrown into chiaroscuro by the headlamps of Bond's car, the shadow of the spikes playing across the elegant planes of his face.

"Yes, 007?"

"We have your back now. All of us at Six. You do know that, don't you?"

"I..." Q looked flustered for a moment. "I suppose you do." His wide grey-green eyes grew earnest. "It is an adjustment, but...I am trying." He suddenly looked painfully young and vulnerable in the harsh halogen lights.

Bond found himself smiling. "Go to sleep. Q-Branch has strict instructions not to let you in the door until at least noon tomorrow." He hesitated for just a moment before adding, "I'll see you then."

Q's answering smile was warm and wide and genuine. Bond had never seen it before, and it made something deep in his chest tighten uncomfortably.

"Good night, 007," Q said, his voice light now with simple happiness. He turned back around and headed inside.

Bond watched until the large door closed behind Q before getting back in his car.  _I may be in trouble here_ , he thought fleetingly, and yet somehow the idea of it was not as concerning as he might have expected.

* * *

[Author's Note: _For anyone who wants a visual,[this](http://www.remodelista.com/posts/house-call-converted-stable-in-london) is how I imagine Q's house looking, although smaller, less posh, and with much more computer equipment. And a workroom filled with industrial lathes and whatnot for his little engineering side-projects. _

 


	4. The Compliment

By the time Bond stopped into Q-branch at half-past noon the next day Q was already in full swing, guiding 004 smoothly through an op. Bond suspected that Q had arrived no later than 11:55 a.m. on the dot. He snickered as an image passed through his mind of Q waiting outside the glass doors of Q-branch for his ban to be lifted, like a forlorn puppy scratching at the window of a pet shop.

He was not sure what kind of reception to expect, but Q flashed him a quick smile and it seemed only natural for Bond to settle into what had become his usual spot a few paces away at Q's side, watching him work.

The mission seemed low-risk — relatively routine surveillance and hardly worth the time of a double-oh, but Q nonetheless gave it his full attention, his usual crisp and decisive style on full display in contrast to his befuddled exhaustion of the night before.

"Keep following, 004. It would be nice to get to the hotel ahead of the target, but he never books in advance, damn him. Just walks in with enough cash to get a room wherever he'd like. No record of him ever having stayed...hold, please."

Q whipped his head around as his thumb jammed a switch on a tiny remote. "Bond. If you were a paranoid nouveau-riche Belarusian arms dealer in Ankara, where would you stay? Divan Cukurhan or Swissotel Ankara?"

Bond blinked, momentarily startled at being addressed, but recovered quickly. "With entourage?"

"At least three security personnel."

"The Swissotel," Bond said without hesitation. "Cukurhan has all the rooms arranged around a central lobby, it's a nightmare to secure. No one can be stationed outside the door without being visible and targeted from any angle."

"Excellent." Q jammed the switch back into position. "004, proceed to the Swissotel, directions are being uploaded to your mobile now."

"Ask for Gamze," Bond suggested. "She'll put Margot behind the front desk if she wants."

"Brilliant. 004, ask for Gamze. Wire up the room before Kovalchuk gets there. Report back when the cameras are in place. You'll be in my ear if anything comes up. Signing off."

Q's grey-green eyes were bright as they flicked to Bond and then away. "Thank you, 007, that was quite helpful," Q said, apparently addressing his laptop screen.

"My pleasure," Bond replied smoothly.

Q continued to tap away at his laptop, but a slight smile quirked the corner of his mouth.

Bond watched Q for a few minutes more, and then left to begin his weight regimen. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass door of Q-branch as it opened, and to his surprise realized that he was smiling as well.

* * *

Q slid the metal tray over to Bond. "A new Walther. Palmprint recognition again, but this one delivers a moderate electrical shock to anyone else who tries to fire it. Incapacitating for approximately five minutes, don't lend it to any of your girlfriends." He flicked a glance at Bond, his grey-green eyes bright with mischief. "No boomerang capabilities as of yet."

Bond's glower at the mention of 'his girlfriends' turned reluctantly into a soft laugh as he settled the Walther into his holster. Q continued his recitation serenely.

"A radio — the battery time has been boosted; should last up to three days, although I would hope if it comes to that we wouldn't take even half that long to retrieve you. It also has a button...here..." Q's slender index finger traced affectionately over an almost undetectably small button. "...Which allows you to interrupt the signal to send a message in Morse code, should you have any particular information to communicate besides the usual 'I'm bollixed, come get me.'"

"Clever," Bond said, partly because it was true and partly for the pleasure of watching the tips of Q's ears turn pink.

"At least you Naval recruits don't need any lessons in Morse like some of the other double-ohs," Q said dryly.

Rather than handing it to Bond, he set the radio down in the tray for Bond to pick up, and indicated the last piece of equipment. "Breitling Navitimer with built-in USB storage. The chronograph subdial is a Geiger counter. I sincerely hope you don't need it."

"I do as well," Bond said wryly. Nuclear weapons were never good news.

"You must be glad to be going out again," Q remarked.

Bond stowed the radio in his pocket and clasped the watch on his wrist. "I am," he said. "But somehow I haven't felt quite as useless this medical leave as I usually do," he felt compelled to add.

Q's smile was sudden, unexpected, and luminous. "You've been quite helpful," he said almost shyly.

Q and Bond had developed an oddly synergistic routine over the past two weeks. After asking Bond's advice on 004's mission, Q had consulted him several more times with practical concerns about field ops. Bond might have thought that Q was just humoring him, but in each case Bond was able to provide useful information that Q's computer models and perusal of past mission briefings could not answer.

Bond had even taken to wearing his earwig while he was at headquarters, so that Q could contact him with questions outside of his daily visits to Q-branch. He was only out of contact while swimming, as Q had yet to perfect a waterproof earwig. He had regaled Bond with an extensive explanation for why this was the case, of which Bond had retained virtually nothing except that it had something to do with tympanic membranes and electrical conductivity.

"I was thinking of trying to compile some sort of database of expertise," Q continued thoughtfully. "Each double oh has certain areas of greater knowledge — weapons, cultures, languages, interrogation techniques, locales. Now that we almost always have the capacity for communication with one another, it may be useful to outline and cross-reference that data."

"That would be quite an undertaking," Bond mused.

Q nodded. "M — I mean, the  _former_  M," he clarified with an apologetic glance to Bond, "— seemed to keep it all in her head. She had an exceptional ability to match operatives with assignments in a way that capitalized on all of their strengths — skill sets, knowledge,  _and_  personality characteristics. I'm afraid a brute-force database approach won't be nearly as effective, but it's better than nothing."

Bond's response to losing M had been to throw himself into his work, distracting himself from any thoughts about her death. Now, however, he was surprised to realize that he could think about M without feeling like he was on the edge of an overwhelming chasm of grief. He could even smile, thinking about the times when she seemed to know Bond better than he knew himself, those sharp eyes of hers dissecting his every strength and weakness with brutal honesty.

"She was a remarkable woman," Bond said.

"She was," Q agreed. "She brought me in to MI6, you know," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Bond tried to hide his surprise. When Q had mentioned M in the past, Bond had just assumed he had known her as a superior and figurehead. Naturally everyone had known who M was, as head of SIS, but very few actually had personal contact with her. Even fewer individuals would have warranted recruitment specifically by her.

"I didn't know that."

Q shrugged. "She was...terrifying. And brilliant. And she gave me a chance, when very few people would have seen any value in me at all."

Bond's surprise doubled. Q's brilliance shone so brightly — the merest word or gesture from him demonstrated his genius, overt and unmistakeable. He couldn't imagine a situation in which Q's talents would have failed to have been apparent to even the dullest observer.

Q looked up suddenly as if aware that he had revealed something of himself, blushing slightly under Bond's assessing gaze.

"Well," he said, somewhat awkwardly, pulling the metal tray back and stowing it away in the depths of his desk. "Good luck out there in the field, 007. And, please..."

"I know," Bond interrupted with a smirk. " _Do_  try to return the equipment in one piece," he mimicked in Q's posh tones.

"Quite," Q said, looking like he wasn't entirely sure if he should feel amused or offended.

Bond turned to leave.

"And yourself as well," Q murmured, but when Bond looked back he was typing steadily on his laptop.

* * *

Bond activated his shirtcollar microphone. "Q," he said.

"Yes, 007?" Q's response was immediate.

"I'm bored," Bond complained.

Q sighed audibly, but his voice was amused when he spoke again. "And you're contacting me because — what? — you'd like me to stream humorous cat videos to your mobile to keep you entertained?"

Bond shifted, unable to escape the little pieces of sharp gravel that were poking uncomfortably into his belly, elbows, and knees.

"What exactly do cats do that is funny?" he asked.

"Fall down, mostly," Q said absently, as he tapped on his keyboard in the background. "Or attack things. Are you honestly telling me you have gotten to your ripe old age without yet seeing a funny cat video?"

"Careful, pup," Bond said, grinning. It would hardly be a conversation with Q if they didn't mock each other's ages.

"007." Q's voice was sharply attentive now. "Exactly  _what_  are you doing under that truck?"

"Ah. Found me, did you?"

"I did." Q's voice was unamused. "And let's hope I'm the only one. Care to explain why you are under that vehicle rather than safely observing from the rocky outcropping .7 kilometres north, as directed?"

"I had to get closer to get a good reading. Why issue me a Geiger counter if I'm not going to use it?" Bond said lightly.

"By that logic I should have issued you an extra ration of common sense, because God knows you never use  _that_ ," Q replied tartly. "Tell me that you are  _not_  trying to infiltrate that facility."

Bond gingerly rolled over, bracing the back of his head on his arm and letting the pokey gravel dig into his spine for awhile instead. "No need. Given what the readings are from here, I feel no overwhelming desire to get closer."

"Oh." Bond heard a bit more tapping on the keyboard. "Bugger," Q said softly.

Bond stared up at the rusty undercarriage of the truck. "You can access my watch's readings remotely?"

"Of course," Q said crisply. "I've forwarded the data to M. He'll start taking action through appropriate channels."

"Understood." Bond sighed, settling into the gravel a little more.

"007? By all means, don't feel obliged to hang about any longer."

Bond snorted. "Tell that to the third guard who jumped into the perimeter rotation, closing the gap that got me in here. Apparently he was just in the loo or something."

"Oh. I have the satellite view in close-up, give me a moment. Oh, yes, there they are."

"Told you so." Bond was really getting quite drowsy in the still heat.

"I'm surprised you didn't just put a bullet in him."

"I  _do_  understand the definition of clandestine, Q," Bond chided. "No sense in spending a month finding the weapons just to tip them off and have them moved again."

"So that's how you ended up under the truck."

Bond yawned. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. It was cover, and shade. The sun is deadly out there."

"Mmmm. And what do you plan to do if the truck drives away?"

Bond shrugged slightly, the gravel rustling underneath him. "Cling to the bottom and hope they don't hit a bump?" he offered. He was rewarded by Q's soft chuckle.

"Very innovative plan, 007. Still, I think it's best to get you out of there. Temperature is upwards of 35, you're in danger of heatstroke if you fanny about under that truck all day."

"You worry too much, Q. I'm more in danger of falling asleep than anything else. I'll sneak out after dark. What time is sunset around here, anyway?"

"19:37 local time," Q said immediately. Bond smiled. Q was always thinking a few steps ahead.

"Seven hours," Bond said. "You can keep me company until then, Q, can't you?"

"I can keep you company when you are back safe at your air-conditioned, radiation-free hotel," Q said absently.

_If only_ , Bond thought idly, but managed not to voice the notion. Maybe the heat was getting to him a bit.

Q's fingers on his keyboard sounded like a gentle patter of rain against a windowpane. Bond closed his eyes and imagined a cool spring rain, trickling down over his body, soothing him. The rain became Q's cool fingertips, tracing gently over his overheated skin...

"Be ready to move on my count, 007. Back the way you came."

Bond snapped out of his daydream into full alertness, every muscle in his body tensing in readiness as he scrambled back around. He braced up onto his hands and toes in as much of a runner's starting stance as the truck's low clearance would allow.

"Five, four, three, two, one...go."

Bond scrambled out from underneath the truck and pelted back across the gravel courtyard. His back felt perilously exposed, the hair at the back of his neck bristling as he listened for the outcry from the guards. In the end, however, the air remained still and silent.

A good distance away from the facility, Bond slowed to a jog before making for the base of the aforementioned rocky outcropping at which his car was parked.

"How did you manage that?" he asked Q, lightheaded and breathless.

"Guard number three has a pregnant wife. He's kept his mobile on him, probably in direct contradiction to orders, given that he was the only one. That's where he had been when you slipped through, sneaking away to call her. He also sends her a frankly oppressive number of texts per day. I sent a text from her number, telling him that labor had begun." Q's voice grew thoughtful. "I do hope he doesn't get fired for this. Young mouth to feed, and all that. On the other hand, papa won't die of radiation poisoning, so perhaps I did him a favor after all..."

Bond started up the rental car, blasting the air conditioning until it started to run blessedly cool, and guzzling from a water bottle he had left in the car. The water was warm, but still very welcome.

"Q," Bond said. "Have I told you what a sodding genius you are?"

"Flatterer." Q's voice was sarcastic, but Bond knew him well enough to know that he was likely blushing just a bit.

"Brains  _and_  beauty, Q. Quite the formidable combination."

Q seemed to hesitate on the other end. "I — I believe this completes your mission, 007," he finally said. "Flight information will be uploaded to your mobile. Safe travels."

Bond smiled to himself. He was realizing that Q seemed to take in stride all manner of compliments about his intellect, but turned hopelessly shy at any mention of his good looks. "Thank you, Q."

"You're very welcome, 007. Q signing off."

Bond turned the car around, heading for his hotel. A long, cool shower, he thought, and a scotch with more ice than liquid, and then maybe he would dive between cool sheets and think a little bit more about that daydream he had been having...

* * *

 

 


	5. The Shadow

Bond had to admit, being cleared by Medical was much more pleasant when he had nothing amiss except a little gravel burn on his palms.

He stopped in at Q-Branch to return his kit, only to find Q deeply engrossed in some kind of coding project.

"007," Q said absently, and then appeared to immediately forget his presence, sinking back into the maelstrom of data. Bond took up his usual position, content to watch Q at work. There was something oddly fascinating about Q when he was in this state. His bright eyes darted from screen to screen and his fingers tapped rapidly on the keyboard. In counterpoint to these swift, sharp movements his body swayed languidly, as if he were riding the currents of the data in his head.

With an understanding smile to Bond R left the branch, and returned in a few minutes carefully balancing Q's Scrabble mug in one hand and her own coffee cup in the other. She left the steaming cup of Earl Grey on the corner of Q's desk and Q instantly snapped out of whatever zone he was in, pausing his work and reaching for the cup.

"Oh. 007," Q said in apparent surprise, blinking a few times. He gestured at the monitor bank. "Just working on the construction of that database we discussed."

Bond saw the moment Q pulled his thoughts free of the project and truly focused his attention outwards, the bright eyes scanning Bond from head to toe. "No injuries this time?"

"Barely a scrape," Bond acknowledged. He saw Q's eyes skim down to his palms, narrowing slightly on the torn and reddened skin.

"May I see?" Q asked.

Puzzled by the odd request, Bond nonetheless obediently held out both hands, palms up. Q stepped closer, peering down. He lifted a finger as if to trace the gravel burn on Bond's palms.

Bond found himself holding his breath, waiting for the touch of that finger, but Q suddenly clenched his hand into a fist, dropping it back at his side.

"It didn't affect the microdermal sensor?"

"What?"

Q's brow furrowed. "The palmprint recognition. On your Walther," he specified as Bond continued to look at him blankly.

_Oh, of course._  Bond felt foolish. Naturally Q wasn't concerned about Bond losing a few strips of skin, he only wanted to assess the effect of his injuries on the functionality of the tech.

"No," Bond said. He smoothly drew the Walther from his holster and settled it in his palm, showing Q how the lights turned green. "Of course the worst of it is on the left palm."

He held his arm steady in firing position as Q ducked around to examine it from several angles, his grey-green eyes studying Bond's grip with startling intensity.

Q finally straightened up. He distractedly pulled the metal tray out from under his desk, placing it in front of Bond.

"I should have anticipated this," Q was muttering to himself as Bond started to place his equipment in the tray. "You lot are always damaging your hands — explosions, scrapes, chemical burns...if it hadn't recognized your palmprint and had shocked you..."

He picked up Bond's Walther from the tray, turning it around in his hands, careful not to settle his palm into the grip enough to activate the electrical shock.

"It's worth the risk," Bond said firmly. "You were right, we are far too likely to get shot with our own firearms. I would have been incapacitated — if not killed outright — several times over without your modifications."

"Hmmm." Q hummed thoughtfully, still turning the weapon in his hands. Bond found something strangely erotic about the way Q's elegant hands traced over the lines of the weapon, the movement of his slender pale fingers almost a caress. He stifled the thought with concentration.

"We need both, then," Q mused. "The palmprint recognition, but then an override code. Something the operative can use to disable the recognition safeguards if their skin is damaged enough."

"You're overthinking, Q. If an operative's hand is damaged enough, they'll be in no position to fire the gun."

Q's answering glance was scathing. "Bollocks. There's no such thing as overthinking when it comes to the safety of my operatives. Are you telling me there's a single one of you pig-headed fools who wouldn't slap a dressing on a burn and come out firing anyway?"

Bond's lips quirked as he shrugged guiltily, and Q snorted. "That's what I thought."

He narrowed his gaze thoughtfully on the weapon again, seeming hardly aware that he was speaking aloud. "It would be a rare circumstance, but the double ohs run into nothing but rare circumstances," he murmured. "Even if it only saves one operative, that would be one less death on my conscience..."

Bond shifted uneasily, almost feeling like he was intruding. Did Q really take such responsibility for the deaths of operatives? If so, he would burn out in no time, and that thought was extremely unsettling. Q had been in charge for less than a year, and already Bond could not imagine the branch under anyone else's authority.

"An override code is a good idea," he settled on saying.

Q startled a bit, as if he had forgotten Bond was standing there. "Oh. Well. Exactly," he said somewhat nonsensically. He placed the Walther in the tray with the rest of the equipment and stowed it back in his desk drawer. "Thank you for your input, 007. I will get to work on those modifications as soon as I can."

"I look forward to seeing the results of your efforts."

Bond turned to go, before turning back.

"I...will be around, if you should need anything," he said, somewhat hesitantly. Perhaps now that Q had begun his database he didn't need Bond to be on hand for advice anymore. Bond felt strangely bereft at the thought.

Q's mouth twitched in a slight smile. "006 is in Syria, and is bound to get himself into a fix, if you might be around at 14:30."

"I think that could be arranged."

* * *

A few days later Bond was lifting weights while animatedly debating the merits of various sniper rifles with Q over his earwig. If Bond was interpreting the background noise correctly, whatever Q was doing seemed to involve the use of a blowtorch at intervals. Bond was a little afraid to ask.

"An  _Enfield_ ," Q scoffed. "Honestly, I know you're a traditionalist, 007, but seriously..."

"Why not?" Bond was quick to defend his choice. "Maximum range is just as good as those behemoths like the L115A3 and Cheytac, and it's three kilograms lighter. That kind of weight difference can have a considerable impact when you're hauling the damn thing more than fifty kilometres over rough terrain..."

"Just one moment, 007," Q interrupted, all the lively warmth gone, his voice suddenly brisk and businesslike.

Bond paused in the middle of a bench press before placing the barbell back on the stand. He sat up, wiping his face and neck with a towel.

Less than a minute later, Q was back.

"007?"

"Everything okay, Q?"

"Perfectly fine. It was just Tanner. Mallory needs to see me, I'm heading up now."

Bond could hear a hint of confusion in Q's voice. Mallory had a very hands-on approach. Usually if he needed Q for something he would just wander down to Q-branch himself.

"Right." Bond looked up just as Moneypenny walked through the door of the weight room, coming to a halt in front of him with her eyebrows raised expectantly. "I believe I'm being summoned as well. Signing off."

By the time Bond took a two-minute shower and dressed, Moneypenny was drumming her fingers impatiently on the row of lockers.

"What's this all about?" Bond asked her as she sped down the corridor toward Mallory's office, high heels clacking.

"They're being very secretive about it all," Moneypenny said in an undertone. "No details, even to me. The only thing I know is that it involves you and the boffin, and they are all very wound up about it."

Bond searched his mind for what that might mean, but came up blank. He shrugged the speculation aside as he stepped into Mallory's office, Moneypenny pushing the heavy, padded door closed behind him.

Bond exchanged a glance with Q as he settled into the chair next to him, across the massive desk from Mallory and Tanner.

"You have a mission," Mallory said summarily.

Q glanced at Bond, and then back at Mallory, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Requiring special kit?" he hazarded. "If you send me the specs..."

"The mission is for you, Q," Mallory interrupted. "007 will be accompanying you."

"For me?" Q blinked rapidly, looking stunned.

"We have information that the data hacked from MI6 by Silva is being offered for sale. The seller goes by the name Kryptos," Tanner explained.

"Kryptos?" Q repeated, still looking confused. "He's — he's good, but...his hacking was always corporate. Credit card numbers, that kind of thing. I've never known him to be interested in this kind of information."

"Apparently he is expanding his horizons," Mallory said grimly. "You will contact him under the guise of a buyer. 007 will go as your bodyguard."

"I'm not a field agent," Q protested. "I'm a bloody  _awful_  liar. Just terrible at it."

Bond kept silent, but internally he was vehemently agreeing with Q. Q was ridiculously and endearingly incapable of deception.

"You won't need to lie. Not much, at least," Mallory said cryptically. "Q is the last person Kryptos would want to meet. We need Shadow."

Bond was tempted to smirk at the dramatic names, but one look at Q and all his amusement fled. Q went unnaturally still, his grey-green eyes wide, his already fair skin leached of all color.

"Q?" Bond halted his instinctive movement towards Q, but couldn't stop himself from speaking.

Mallory kept his eyes on Q, unsympathetic and inexorable, while Tanner looked at the papers in his hand, shuffling them with an almost guilty expression.

"Q," Mallory began unctuously. "The recovery of this data is paramount, above all other concerns. After all, the security breach happened on your watch..."

Rage clawed at Bond's throat, sudden and overwhelming. "That's enough of that," he gritted out, hand instinctively flexing toward his holster. He didn't understand exactly what was going on, but he knew he didn't like it.

Mallory's eyes shifted to Bond in sudden alertness, but Q's eyes remained staring straight ahead.

"Bond, could you leave us for a moment?" Q asked, his voice steady but tight with tension.

Bond looked from Q to Mallory. "You're sure? Q, are you all ri—"

Q turned his head and Bond's words cut off as if his throat had been slit. Q's expression was set and cold but his eyes burned with a fierce, deadly rage that Bond would never have thought him capable of if he wasn't seeing it for himself.

"Out, Bond," he said, his voice clipped and icy. Bond nodded once and slipped out the door.

It was a mark of Q's extreme distraction that he had forgotten he still wore his microphone, tuned in to Bond's frequency. Bond had turned his earwig off when the summons came through, but he turned it back on now, unrepentantly eavesdropping. Something was going on that he didn't understand, and it affected Q. He was damned if he'd be kept on the outside for this.

As the earwig powered up, the voices in the room faded in. Only Q's voice could be heard clearly — the earwig was designed to pick up a single voice and screen out background noise — but occasionally a few words of Mallory or Tanner's speech filtered through.

"Shadow is  _traceable_ ," Q was saying, his voice practically shaking now with fury. "If you lot could manage it, then someone like Kryptos could do it in his sleep, and it's..."

Tanner said something, his tones placating and calm even though Bond couldn't make out the words.

"It's an  _unacceptable_  risk," Q hissed. "Moving her now — do you understand the trauma that would entail? I had one requirement,  _one_ , when I came on here, and that was a guarantee of her safety..."

_Her?_ Bond felt something in his chest twist at the word, his mind spinning through possibilities. Who was this woman Q seemed determined to protect?

Mallory's voice interjected now, measured and firm. Bond strained to hear, but could only catch the occasional word. "...utmost...no other options...cover story of this depth..."

Mallory finished talking and silence fell in the room, heavy and oppressive. Bond could hear the sound of Q's uneven, rapid breathing as he seemed to struggle with his decision.

"God _dammit_ ," Q finally spat out, equal parts fury and defeat. "Upload the mission brief to my tablet. When do I leave?"

Tanner spoke again.

He sighed. "Fine. Just. Do I have time to..." Mallory barely got a word out before Q interrupted again. "Very well. Forget I asked. Where is the meet?"

Tanner murmured something.

"Flying." Q said. "Bloody  _perfect_."

* * *

 


	6. The Issue

Q was too professional to storm out, but Bond could see fury in every rigid muscle as he stalked out the door and down the corridor without a glance at Bond.

"Bond." Tanner was holding the door open. "A word."

Bond allowed himself a final glance at Q's stiff back as he disappeared down the corridor. The urge to chase after him was strong, but the need for more information was even stronger. Bond followed Tanner back into the room, resuming his seat at the desk.

Tanner looked even more worried than usual, while Mallory's lips were pressed into a thin line of displeasure. The three men regarded each other in silence for a long moment before Mallory nodded at Tanner.

Tanner opened one of the files in front of him, choosing the page judiciously before placing it flat on the desk in front of Bond. Bond let nothing show on his face even though he could feel his whole body tense.

The photo was of Q, obviously taken several years ago. His face was thinner, making him look even more vulnerable and ethereal than he looked now. His hair was longer as well, falling in chaotic curls over his right eye in the front and brushing his shoulders at the back. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes dead, his expression bleak. A colorful bruise blossomed over his left cheekbone.

It looked almost like a booking photo, although Bond took careful note of the lack of any identifying information. Not an official arrest, then. Looking at it more closely, Bond thought he even recognized the cinderblock wall in the background — one of the detention cells in the old MI6 building.

"Q's past is his own," Mallory began grimly. "But for the purposes of this mission, this is what you need to know." He leaned back in his chair, nodding to Tanner again.

Tanner took over the briefing, his brow still creased with worry. "Before he was recruited to MI6," — Tanner tapped the photo — "Q was known in hacker circles as Shadow. He was more of a rumor — the name popping up here and there — prior to 2003. Some time between 2003 and 2008 he became quite notorious. He specialized in highly complex systems — mostly grey hat work, but open to commissions of more clearly questionable legality if he found the system challenging enough to infiltrate."

Bond felt his mind spin for a moment before this new information about Q seemed to slot into place. On one level it made total sense. When Q mentioned that he had invented the security protocols that Silva had used he had been proud, but not boastful. He must have been quite gifted at an early age. And yet, the idea of Q —  _Q_ , with his Earl Grey tea and old-man cardigans — as a lawbreaker, no less a renegade hacker with the overly-dramatic moniker of Shadow, was somewhat ludicrous.

Bond tried to focus on the practical. "If this Kryptos character actually does have the data hacked from Six, won't he know who Q is? And myself, for that matter?"

Tanner shook his head. "The breach was serious, but Q worked quickly and was able to protect certain files. Personnel files were not touched. And Q's file only exists on paper. It was part of our agreement in bringing him on. Nothing in our databases contains his real name or photograph."

_["I had one requirement,_ _one_ _, when I came on here, and that was a guarantee of her safety..."]_

The words echoed in Bond's head, but of course he couldn't ask about information he wasn't supposed to have. And yet he couldn't stop thinking of it. Q's real name and photograph would potentially expose this woman, whomever she was.  _Who was she?_

Tanner spoke again, interrupting Bond's circling thoughts. "We have already circulated rumors that Shadow is interested in the purchase of this information, and Kryptos has floated a date — tomorrow — and a location. Q will be initiating contact as we speak to lock down the details."

Mallory leaned forward, his green eyes keen. "Bond, I cannot overemphasize the importance of this mission. Your highest priority is to retrieve the data for analysis, so that we can find out how extensive the damage was, and if the data has been disseminated further. At the very least, this must be contained."

Bond nodded. "Understood."

His eyes drifted back to the photograph, trying to reconcile the image of the fragile and haunted-looking young man named Shadow with the Q he knew.

"Sir," he found himself saying. "Are you sure that Q is up to this?"

Mallory and Tanner exchanged an unreadable glance.

"I think you'll find," Mallory said, each word carefully chosen, "that Q is more resilient than you might think. He will do this, because he has to."

Bond thought again of Q's grey-green eyes, burning with rage he would have never expected from the diffident young quartermaster.

"Understood," Bond said again. He nodded to Tanner, and then to Mallory, and then left. He had a mission to prep for, and then he'd find Q.

* * *

Q was still giving frantic orders to his minions when Bond arrived at Q-Branch.

"We'll be  _fine_ , Q," R was saying, her expression telling Bond that it was not the first — or even likely the tenth — time that she was saying the words.

"Just be certain to monitor..."

"Q." Bond interrupted. R looked immensely relieved, and Bond shot her a quick wink.

"007. I can give you your kit in a moment..."

"I'm to drive you to your house to pack, and then to the airport," Bond said neutrally.

Q's hands tightened on his tablet, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He avoided Bond's eyes as he nodded to R. He went to his desk, Bond following behind.

Q pulled the metal tray from under his desk, placing it on the desktop with a push in Bond's direction. Bond couldn't help but notice the absence of Q's usual commentary as he stowed the equipment in his various pockets.

Q packed up his messenger bag in silence. When it was packed he headed out the doors of Q-Branch, Bond following silently.

When they were clear of the branch Q shot a sharp glance at Bond. "Mallory worried I'm going to pull a runner?" he said scathingly.

Bond stopped, surprised, and Q stopped as well, wheeling to face him with angry defensiveness in every line of his body.

"I think if anything they were worried you wouldn't pull yourself away from Q-Branch in time to make the flight." Bond chose his words carefully. "Q...your loyalty is not in question here."

Some of the tension in Q's body eased. He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking uncertain.

"I don't know what I'm doing here, Bond," he said, his voice suddenly low and rough. "I'm not a field agent."

"Your instincts are as good as any field agent I know, Q. You can do this. I'll be there the whole time."

Q's mouth twisted for a moment, his eyes searching Bond's face as if gauging his sincerity. Finally he nodded. "I appreciate that, 007."

They began walking again, and Bond had a sudden thought. "Do we need to stop by Medical? They could give you something for the flight."

Q's brow furrowed. "What are you on about?"

"You're afraid of flying..." Bond's words trailed off uncertainly. "Aren't you?"

Q avoided his eyes. "Not exactly, no."

_Bloody hell. Of course not_ , Bond thought. It was practically the only thing he knew about Q, and apparently it was a lie as well.

They drove in silence to Q's house, Q only speaking as they pulled up in front of the gate.

"Wait here, will you?" he asked somewhat hesitantly, as if worried that Bond would storm his little fortress. And damned if Bond wasn't tempted beyond all measure to do so. What did Q have in there?

Bond nodded and Q's relief was palpable. He tapped a code into the gate keypad and disappeared through the first gap in the wrought iron.

Bond sat in the car and ruminated.

_["I had one requirement,_ _one_ _, when I came on here, and that was a guarantee of her safety..."]_

Had he so completely misread Q? Could he have a girlfriend, or even a wife hidden away somewhere?

Bond had no idea why he had been so certain of Q's sexual orientation. Certainly Q had never mentioned an interest in anyone of any gender — he made no allusion to past lovers, he never even joined in when Moneypenny waxed rhapsodic about some celebrity Bond had never heard of in the late hours of the night when they both flocked to Q-Branch to relieve their boredom.

And yet Bond had never been attracted to a man without that spark of attraction in return, and — he reluctantly admitted — his attraction to Q was starting to border on an obsession. Surely he was not imagining the tension in the banter between them, or the way Q's eyes brightened when Bond walked into the branch. Even if Bond and Q would never act on it, the appreciation was there.  _Wasn't it?_

Bond felt an uncomfortable gnawing in the pit of his stomach. In the course of a few hours, everything he thought he had known about Q had crumbled to dust.

_But then you never really know anyone, do you?_ the small, bitter voice in the back of his head hissed.  _I would have thought you had learned that lesson well enough._

Bond clenched his hands on the steering wheel. Bloody hell, he would not go down that road. Q wasn't Vesper. They were nothing alike.

_Except that you trusted them both,_ the voice whispered.  _And nothing was what it seemed, was it?_

By the time Q emerged, looking almost unrecognizable in faded blue jeans and a tatty concert t-shirt under a leather jacket, Bond was stewing in his own confusion and unfocused anger. He opened the boot and Q threw a duffle bag into it, folding himself into the passenger seat again with his messenger bag clasped protectively to his chest.

Bond barely let him get his seatbelt on before he pulled out, jolting along the paving stones at a teeth-rattling pace before taking his aggression out on the late-afternoon traffic.

Q looked out the window in silence for awhile before finally turning to Bond. His bright green eyes raked over Bond, from his clenched jaw to his white-knuckled hand on the gear shift.

"I know why  _I_  am furious, but what on earth do  _you_  have to be so stroppy about?" Q finally said, with that disarming candor of his. Goddamn it, didn't the man understand in the slightest about leaving things unsaid?

Bond gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. What could he possibly say? That he had assumed that Q was as alone as Bond was, and felt betrayed that he had someone in his life Bond didn't know about? That he had just assumed the connection he felt with Q had been mutual in some way? For god's sake, it was pathetic. Q hadn't actually lied to him about anything, simply because Q had never told him a damn thing about himself.

"Are you — " Q ran his hand through his hair in frustration before starting again. "Is this because they told you I was a hacker? For god's sake, 007, you are the  _last_  person I would have figured for coming over all toffee-nosed about something like that."

"I don't give a damn about your hacking," Bond gritted out.

"What then?" Bond had never heard Q raise his voice, but he was practically shouting now, both of them tense almost to a breaking point. "What is this epic sulk of yours all about?"

" _Epic sulk?"_ Bond repeated incredulously. He clenched his jaw, biting back whatever damaging words he might be tempted to unleash.

Q's eyes blazed bright green with anger for another moment, and then suddenly his mercurial mood seemed to shift again. He turned his head and took a deep, shaky breath, looking out the window at nothing.

The anger left his body, his shoulders slumping. He looked defeated. "You said you would be there for me," he said softly.

Bond felt like a total shit, and at the same time wondered if he was just being skillfully manipulated. "And  _you_  told Moneypenny that you were afraid of flying," he found himself saying.

"What?" Q's head snapped around. "That can't  _possibly_  be what this is about. Because I didn't come to Macau?"

Bond shrugged, his knuckles tightening even more on the steering wheel, angry at himself for having said anything. It sounded truly ridiculous, even to himself.

Q shook his head in disbelief. "Moneypenny's confidence was shattered after she shot you. Even if she decided field work was not for her, she needed to not be afraid of it anymore. And you needed field support, not someone to hand you your kit and send you on your way."

It made sense, and yet Q was still avoiding Bond's eyes, the tips of his ears turning pink.  _I'm a bloody_ _awful_ _liar,_  he remembered Q saying to Mallory. _Just terrible at it._

"That's not the whole truth," Bond snapped. "You're hiding something. Bloody hell, Q — one minute you're my quartermaster, my friend, and then suddenly you're a hacker, a criminal. I knew one thing about you, that you were afraid of flying, and even  _that_  was a lie. J _ust tell me one goddamn thing about you that's true._ "

Q looked like he had been slapped. He bit his lip, turning his head so all Bond could see was the edge of his glasses, the curve of his cheek above that vulnerable neck.

Q's hands clenched over the messenger bag again, and then he sighed.

" _Khayal,"_ he said softly.

"What?"

"Khayal. It means 'shadow' in Arabic. My grand-mère — grandmother, I mean — used to call me that. She was Lebanese. She taught me French, and Arabic. I was close to her. Lived with her off and on, as a child. I was quick, and quiet. I used to follow her everywhere but I never spoke much, and so she called me her shadow. That's why I chose the name for my hacking."

Bond felt the knot of tension in his chest ease. He rolled some of the tightness from his shoulders, feeling somewhat sheepish. "Thank you," he finally said.

Q's gaze was piercing. "Trust issues," he said. "That's plastered all over your file. I suppose I've just never seen it before. But I've never lied to you, 007. Not about anything."

Bond had nothing to say to that.

"In any case," Q continued. "The truth is I have no idea if I'm afraid of flying or not. Certainly I find the potential for mechanical disaster somewhat unpleasant, but I've never been on an aeroplane."

Bond couldn't suppress his reaction to that. "You must be joking. We live on a bloody  _island_ , Q."

"Yes. Well." Q shrugged. "I suppose this is my introduction to the glamorous, jet-setting side of espionage."

Bond heard a sudden echo of Q's voice in his ear.  _So much for my promising career in espionage,_  Q had said as he laid a false trail for Silva. Q had barely met Bond, and yet he had risked his career — and from what Bond now knew likely his very freedom — to assist him. It was true, he knew very little about Q, but if there was one thing he should have known it was that Q was firmly on his side. Q had his trust for a reason, and Bond vowed that he would not let himself forget that again.

He smiled, hoping that Q would recognize the gesture for what it was. "You can have my window seat," he said. Q's smile in return was everything Bond could have hoped for.

* * *

 


	7. The Flight

Q as a traveling companion turned out to be a neverending source of entertainment.

First there was the dodgy incident at security, when Bond thought he might need to pry the laptop and mobile out of Q's hands to send them through the x-ray scanner.

Bond had to bite his cheek to keep himself from laughing out loud as Q virtually ignored his own security screening, twisting and turning to monitor the progression of his tech down the conveyor belt. His beatific expression when he was finally reunited with his electronic devices was that of a new mother seeing her infant after a long absence.

They waited at the gate, Q tapping away on his laptop, apparently reconfiguring Heathrow's wifi systems for greater efficiency and security out of sheer boredom. After a brief warning not to access the actual air traffic control computers Bond left him to it. Since they had reached an understanding earlier a great deal of Q's tension had eased, but he still seemed apprehensive — about the mission itself, or flying, or both. If distraction helped, Bond was happy to leave him to it.

Q seemed to get increasingly edgy in the boarding queue. Bond instinctively stood behind him, blocking the press of the other passengers and giving Q a little space, and was rewarded with a small smile of relief in return.

When they were seated — Bond having relinquished his window seat as promised — Q's apprehension turned to eager curiosity. He opened and closed the window shade, tested out every recline option on his chair, and fiddled with the air and light controls, all the while regaling Bond with a stream of information regarding the underlying mechanism, construction, and manufacture of every component.

Bond found the combination of almost childlike curiosity and highly technical knowledge ridiculously endearing. He listened with apparent rapt attention to Q explaining how the environmental control system used high-pressure water separation to dry out the air within the air cycle machine upstream of turbine section input, while idly speculating as to the odds of getting a scotch out of the flight attendant before the drinks trolley came around.

When the engines actually started up Q's recitation halted suddenly. "Oh," he said, his eyes going slightly wide, as the aeroplane lurched into motion. Bond watched him carefully, wondering if he should have picked up something from Medical after all. The last thing he needed was for Q to have a panic attack on the flight.

Q's hands tightened on the armrests as the plane gathered speed.

"You know the statistics on flying..." Bond began.

Q interrupted him with a sharp glance. "I am aware of the statistics, 007," he said acidly. "A rarer incidence of mechanical failures in comparison to other forms of travel does not negate the fact that when said failures occur they are significantly more likely to have catastrophic —  _oh!"_  he said again as the wheels left the ground.

Q craned around, watching the ground drop away from them for long minutes. Finally, he turned back to Bond, a slow, delighted smile spreading across his face. "It's — it's quite brilliant, actually," he said.

Bond couldn't help grinning in return. He barely noticed it anymore, flying to him was as routine as getting in a car. It was quite entertaining to experience it anew from Q's rather eccentric perspective. Bond wondered again why he had never flown before. Perhaps his parents had been afraid of flying? He was tempted to ask, but didn't have the heart to ruin Q's simple enthusiasm with potentially sad memories.

Instead he reclined his chair, settling in. "You know, it might attract attention if you go around calling me 007," he said indulgently.

"Hmmm?" Q still seemed entranced by the view out the window. "Oh. Right. Of course."

He dropped his voice to a low undertone. "It's Somerset for this mission, isn't it? And I am Quentin Darcy." He pulled a face. "Moneypenny's idea of a joke, no doubt. She loves giving me Q names, and she is a tremendous closet Pride and Prejudice fanatic. Which is just ridiculous, I'm supposed to be  _French_  for this mission."

"Or you could just call me James, you know. That's the same, and I am your underling after all."

"Oh. Yes." Bond watched the tips of Q's ears turn pink with fascination.  _"James,"_ Q said, as if tasting the word, and damned if Bond didn't feel a jolt straight to the cock at the sound of his name spoken in that rich, posh voice.

"Or Somerset," he found himself saying. "Either one is fine." He closed his eyes and pretended to fall into a doze, wondering when in  _hell_ the drinks trolley was going to arrive already.

* * *

The Grand Hotel in Stockholm was a sprawling, turn-of-the-century structure overlooking the harbor, a mix of modern clean-lined updates and that particular pompous ornateness that characterized all European grand hotels — as if they were perpetually anticipating hosting a royal wedding at any moment.

Q's eyes darted around the lobby as they entered, pointing out every security measure to Bond in a low undertone as they passed through. He managed to spot a few even Bond had missed. Finally he mentioned fingerprint scanners for staff computer access before they had even reached the front desk.

"Come on,  _Quentin_ ," he said, overpronouncing the false name. "That has to be a guess."

"It's  _Mister_  Darcy to you, underling," Q said imperiously, with a glint of mischief in his eye. "And I never guess." The corner of his mouth twitched as he tried to suppress his smile. "I hacked the server of the security firm who did the install and downloaded the schematics, of course."

"Cheater," Bond shot back, before checking them both in to their adjoining rooms.

After a shower and a shave, Bond knocked perfunctorily on the connecting door and wandered into Q's room. His stomach dropped briefly at the apparently empty room, before a thump and a quiet "Bugger!" eased his fears.

He rounded the bed, ducking slightly to see under the massive, ornate desk by the window. He was greeted with the sight of Q's shapely arse, wriggling energetically in his trousers as he messed about with cables under the desk.

"Nice view," Bond purred, and was rewarded with another bump and curse as Q scrambled out backwards on his hands and knees, trailing cables behind him.

"The wiring is atrocious," Q said, straightening up. He blinked as if processing Bond's words. "Don't you have a harbor view as well?"

Bond refrained from rolling his eyes with effort. He couldn't tell if Q was deflecting his flirting by willfully misunderstanding him, or if he was just remarkably oblivious.

"The housekeeping is apparently atrocious as well," he said. "You have dust bunnies in your hair."

He snickered as Q ran a hand self-consciously through his hair, making its usual wind-tunnel look even more pronounced.

Q shot him a dark look. "Perhaps you could be  _helpful_  and fetch that small case over there?"

Bond fetched the case and opened it up to find a frankly mind-boggling collection of electronics and cables. Under Q's direction he helped him assemble the set-up into what was apparently a cutting-edge secure network.

When they were done Q stood, dusting off his hands. "Kryptos said he would be in touch at 2300."

Bond checked his watch. Over ninety minutes to go. "Have you eaten at all today?"

Q's brow furrowed in confusion, apparently trying to recall if breakfast had factored into his day. Bond tossed him the room service menu. "You choose. I'll call it in."

* * *

At 2300 exactly, Q's mobile pinged.

"Email to the secure address set up for contact with Kryptos," he said. He tapped the screen, opening up the email. "Oh. Oh...that's  _clever_ ," he said with admiration.

"What is it?"

"He wants to verify that I am Shadow. He's left me the time and place of the meet tomorrow. I just have to get to it."

Bond felt a curl of suspicion in his gut. Q looked entirely too intrigued for this to be a good thing.

"Left it where?"

Q's mouth quirked. "On an NSA server."

He opened up his laptop and settled down on the bed cross-legged, his fingers already flying across the keyboard.

"Q. Are you  _actually_  hacking the United States' National Security Agency?"

Q grinned —  _grinned!_  — at Bond. "Better order up some Earl Grey."

* * *

Q sat in the chair in the hotel conference room, staring out the window over the harbor. Bond stood, tense and watchful, alternately watching the door and Q.

Q looked knackered, dark smudges below each eye, his face pale and set. He had cracked the time and the location of the meet in an impressive three hours, but Bond would be surprised if he had slept at all after Bond had returned to his own room for the remainder of the night.

Bond glanced at the door again. No sign of Kryptos yet.

"Q?" he asked.

Q shifted his eyes to Bond. "What am I doing here?" he asked, his voice soft and husky with lack of sleep. "He'll  _know_ , as soon as I open my mouth he'll know I'm lying..."

"Stop it, Q," Bond said sharply. "You are not lying. You  _are_  Shadow. You want this data. That is all you need to say, and it's all true."

"I'm not sure..."

 _"Q."_  Bond's voice was harsh now, as he crouched in front of Q. He knew people found his ice-blue gaze intimidating, and he brought every bit of the force of that gaze to bear on Q's stormy-green eyes.  _"Who are you?"_ he barked in a low voice.

Q flinched instinctively at the tone, and then blinked. "I'm Shadow," he said, his voice growing more steady and confident.

" _And what do you want?"_

Q's face was resolved now. "I want the data from MI6," he said firmly.

Bond nodded once. "Good. You're ready."

He heard soft footsteps in the hall and straightened up, his hand twitching toward his holster.

 _Get the data. Protect Q. Get the data. Protect Q._ With the mission objectives firm in his mind Bond fell into wary readiness as the door opened.

* * *

 


	8. The Hacker

[Author's Note: Sorry for where I leave this one — the next chapter will be up Friday! :-D Many thanks to Sekishi, who has taken on the monumental task of translating [_Lucid_](../../../655032?view_full_work=true) into French, and as a bonus awesomeness corrected my abominable French in this chapter. I don't speak Brit, hacker, or French, so why I chose to put all three in one chapter is beyond me.]

* * *

The first man was obviously a bodyguard. He opened the door carefully, checking the corners of the room, his eyes sweeping Bond and Q, narrowing on Bond's firearm. Bond lowered his arms to his side nonconfrontationally, nodding in acknowledgement.

The bodyguard entered, taking up a position a few feet from Bond near the door.

"Clear," he said.

The next man to enter could be none other than Kryptos. He was tall and pale, with a shock of ginger hair and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He looked slightly older than Q — in his late 30's, perhaps, but dressed like a teenager in jeans and a threadbare Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt. He slumped casually into the room, sending a wave in Bond's direction before sitting next to Q, placing his own laptop carefully on the coffee table.

Kryptos powered up his laptop before turning to Q.

"Hey, man," he said, a soft American drawl in his voice. "Sorry for...y'know, all the suits." He gestured vaguely in the direction of his bodyguard and Bond. "Can't be too careful these days."

" _Ne t'en fais pas_ ," Q said fluidly. "Do not worry about it." His lightly French-accented English was flawless.

"So you're Shadow," Kryptos said, looking Q up and down. His voice was still casual but his pale blue eyes were sharp and suspicious. "That was some killer code you dropped on Google back in the day. You must have been just a kid. How'd you run that?"

Q sat back, smirking a little. "My first zero-day exploit," he said with a very expressive Gallic shrug. "The key flaw was in the Windows font program. That let me unleash my worm, and the rest is, as they say,  _histoire_." His smile widened. "I also put shadows in the Google doodle, but no one outside of Mountain View knew that was me,  _pour ce que j'en sais_."

Kryptos seemed to relax a bit. " _I_  knew, man. That was epic. Totally leet."

"Not quite as epic," — Q returned Kryptos's smile of admiration — "as your credit hack of Dexia Bank Belgium. You pwned NASDAQ  _complètement_ that day."

"True, true," Kryptos grinned. "They were  _scrambling_ , man."

To Bond they were barely speaking English, but whatever their exchange meant it seemed to satisfy Kryptos. He chuckled a bit before growing serious.

"Here's the deal, man," he said earnestly. "This is not my usual thing, y'know? This MI6 stuff is some real heavy shit. But, y'know, can't let an opportunity like this go by, right? I mean, if Google and Facebook are dropping $20k on a bug right now, this right here is my  _retirement_ , know what I mean? The game's changing. All these Ukranians flooding the market...you gotta cash out when you can, right?"

" _Je comprends_. I will admit that I was surprised to hear that you were involved."

"Same here, man, same here. To be honest, you went so dark I figured you got into the wrong system and got iced. It wouldn't be the first time."

Q nodded carefully. "Not so, but very close. I ran into some trouble with MI6. Had to go deep underground for quite some time.  _J'esp _è_ re que..._this might be my way back."

"Oh!" Kryptos's face lit up. "Yeah, man, that's awesome.  _Leverage_ , man, that's totally...that makes me feel better, you know? I mean, there's probably some bad guys out for this info. Spooks and shit, you know? I didn't want to deal with that, but you can't just sit on a golden egg. Gotta do something with it. And I feel like I  _know_  you, man. I can trust you with this stuff."

Bond could barely keep from rolling his eyes. This man was so clearly out of his depth — trying to sell information stolen from a national intelligence agency to someone he could  _trust_?

Q smiled at Kryptos warmly, leaning into him, his voice growing confidential. "It will be in good hands, I assure you."

Kryptos nodded enthusiastically. "I mean...I'll admit, when Rata called me in on this hack, I took the commission just because it was some beautiful work. I mean, did you see his code? Freakin' revolutionary."

_Rata_. Kryptos pronounced it as rhyming with 'data,' but in his head Bond shifted the pronunciation to Spanish.  _Rat._ Silva.

Bond could see a new tension in Q's body, but his voice managed to convey simple enthusiasm. " _D'accord._  The mutating malware in particular was... _très beau._ "

"See. You get it. I wanted to get a closer look, but...man, when I realized the system was MI6, and then the place blew up? I don't want any part of that. I delivered my code to Rata and bailed."

Q leaned forward. "So then, how do I know that this data is... _comment dit-on déjà_...legitimate?"

Kryptos grinned. "I've got it all worked out, man. You're gonna love this. I've got a preview here. The rest of the data is on the hard drive. But check this out." He swiped his finger over the trackpad on his laptop.

Bond saw every muscle in Q's body tense. His hand twitched toward his Walther and the other bodyguard gave him an edgy look.

" _Qu'est-ce que c'est_...what is that timer?" Q said, his voice pitched slightly higher with tension.

"That's the genius part. See, I packed the CD drive with explosives, wired to the hard drive. The countdown started when I powered on, set for half an hour. It goes off unless I give you the killcode. Pretty cool, huh?"

Bond felt tension tighten his spine.  _Bloody fuck._

Q's voice was icy. "I do not think this is...how you say... _cool_ , Kryptos. Are you trying to double-cross me?"

Kryptos had a wounded expression. "No, man, seriously — don't freak. Totally the opposite, you know? I mean, I couldn't just give you the data, right? Why would you let me walk out of here? This way it's all cool. See, we've got almost fifteen minutes left. No problem. You look over the preview, make sure it's all legit. Then you transfer half the funds, and I put in the first killcode and skedaddle. That puts another half hour on the clock. When I'm a little ways away I'll call you. You transfer the rest of the funds, I give you the second killcode, and then all the data's yours. Pretty cool, huh?"

Q regarded Kryptos in apparent disbelief for a moment, his eyes flashing bright green with ire. "No, Kryptos, it is  _not_  cool," Q snapped. "How do I know you'll give me the second killcode when I transfer the remaining funds? How do I know the code you give me won't activate the explosives and kill me? Why would I even touch that laptop until I know you wired it up  _justement_?"

Kryptos seemed rattled by Q's reaction, running a hand through his shock of ginger hair. "Oh, man, don't be like that. We gotta have trust, right? And don't worry, my partner did the explosive stuff. Totally not my deal, but he knows what he's doing. Safe as houses, I promise you. Here, I'll get him, he'll explain it to you." He pulled out his mobile and started tapping.

" _Partner,_ " Q said. He couldn't seem to help flashing a quick look of alarm in Bond's direction, his eyes growing wide. "In our earlier communications you said nothing of...a partner."

"Oh, yeah, man. I mean...I told you, I gave my code to Rata and got out. But this guy was already working with Rata, on the inside. I mean, part of the hack was a hard-wired workaround, right? He hadta have someone do that for him. But then Rata got iced, I saw that part on the news, but he had a failsafe that sent the data along to this guy. A final 'fuck you' to MI6, you know? And he didn't know what to do with it, so he came to me. So you don't have to worry, this dude's a professional, okay? He wanted to leave the face-to-face stuff to me, but he'll tell you. Just chill, okay? He's coming up."

Q looked to Bond, his eyes wild now as they both belatedly made sense of Kryptos's ramblings.  _Already working with Rata, on the inside._ Q started to push away from the desk, just as the door opened.

"Bugger," Bond distantly heard Q say in his own voice as MacMillan, the field agent briefly known as 003, appeared in the doorway.

* * *


	9. The Decision

* * *

Bond was already pulling his weapon as recognition dawned on MacMillan's face. MacMillan drew just as the bodyguard to Bond's left tried to tackle Bond. Bond dropped the bodyguard with a single headshot, turning back to find MacMillan's weapon pointed not at Bond but at Q.

Bond fired twice, the first of the rounds hitting MacMillan just as he was pulling the trigger. MacMillan jerked with the impact of the bullet but still got two shots off before Bond put the rest of the clip in his center mass.

It was over in seconds. Bond checked that MacMillan was down, kicking his gun away.

Bond turned to find Q covered in blood.

" _Q,"_  he said, his heart suddenly in his throat. As Bond stood frozen for an instant, Q dragged a forearm across his face, wiping the worst of the gore from his glasses with a grimace of distaste, and without pause pulled Kryptos's nearly headless corpse off the laptop. He heaved the body out of the chair, letting it fall to the ground, and then settled himself behind the keyboard, his fingers already tapping.

Bond pulled himself out of his frozen shock, dragging MacMillan's corpse free of the door and closing it. "Q. What in the  _fuck_  are you doing?"

"Hacking the killcodes," Q said tightly. "Now shut up and let me work."

Bond moved closer to Q, eyes raking his form to verify that he was not actually hit. The whole left side of Q's face and upper body was covered in blood and a fair amount of bits of skull and brain matter, but Q himself seemed unharmed. His face under the gore was pale but his jaw was set and his eyes were intent on the lines of code scrolling in a window under a flashing red timer.

8:33...8:32...8:31...

"There's no time, Q. We have to get out of here. Someone will have heard the shots." Bond shoved a new clip in his Walther, holstering it, and started to go through MacMillan and Kryptos's clothing, pocketing their mobiles.

"We need the data, 007. There will be records to show if this is the only copy, where it might have originated..."

_Bloody hell._ The stubborn idiot. Like it wasn't enough that he nearly just had his head blown off, now Q was tapping away at a laptop loaded with god knows how much explosive material, rigged up by two of the most bloody incompetent criminals Bond had ever encountered.

Bond looked over Q's shoulder.

7:44...7:43...7:42...

Fuck. Bond stepped swiftly to the door, looking out. The hallway seemed clear. He knew Q had looped all the cameras in the room and hallway for the meet, but if someone had heard the shots security would already be on their way.

6:31...6:30...6:29...

Bond crouched down at Q's side again. "Q, there's no time. Let it go."

Q never even paused in his typing. "The breach was my fault, 007. I can recover the data.  _Let me do my job_."

Bond hissed in a frustrated breath. 5:49...5:48...5:47...

Q was good, Bond knew that. But who knew if the killcode would even work as promised? Time was running out, on multiple levels, and the urge to get Q away from this place and somewhere safe was almost overwhelming. That moment when he had looked over to find Q covered in blood kept replaying in his head. He had almost lost Q once, and now Q was within an armsreach of some kind of bomb, with no apparent concern for his own well-being...

Bond imagined the detonation. Q losing those elegant hands, that slim body being thrown backwards by the force of the blast...

"Fuck the data," Bond growled. He drew his Walther, placing four evenly spaced shots into the window of the conference room. Then he picked up a chair and smashed it through, the glass cracking from the corners of the square Bond had delineated.

Q's head whipped around. "What in the hell..."

3:28...3:27...3:26...

Bond yanked the laptop out from under Q's hands, snapping the lid shut. Moving to the window again, he hurled the laptop out over the harbor. A few tourists gaped up at him from the shore but the laptop traveled an impressive distance, landing well out into the water, sinking rapidly.

Bond grabbed a handful of Q's shirtsleeve and pulled him to his feet. Ignoring Q's protest Bond grabbed Q's laptop, shoving it at him. Q reflexively clasped the laptop to his chest and Bond towed him toward the door with his left hand, pulling his gun with his right. He snarled as Q yanked his shirtsleeve free, but simply rasped, "Stay behind me," and checked the hall.

They pounded down the hall to the stairwell. Bond led them back to their room by a circuitious route, avoiding the cameras wherever possible. He'd have to get Q to wipe the footage on any they had missed, but for now they had to get out of here. Narrowly avoiding a housekeeper and her cart Bond led Q into his room, shoving him in the direction of the bathroom and starting the shower for him.

"You have two minutes to get that blood off of you, and then we're gone." In the harsh light of the bathroom Q looked pale and fragile, his skin almost grey underneath the spatter of blood and tissue, his green eyes dazed behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

"Q," Bond barked. "Two minutes. Did you hear me, or do I need to wash you down myself?"

Q blinked. "Two minutes," he repeated numbly. He started to peel off his clothing as if on autopilot, and Bond left him to it.

It took thirty seconds for Bond to dig in Q's bag for a spare set of clothes to leave for him in the bathroom, gathering up the bloody clothes from the floor in a trash bag, wiping the traces of blood away with a towel and throwing that in the trash bag as well. Another minute was spent callously breaking down Q's computer setup. Bond simply yanked cables wherever he saw them and threw the whole mess back into the case. Bond's gear was already packed, but he stopped by his room to pick up his suitcase.

By the time he returned the shower was no longer running. Q came out of the bathroom dressed in the t-shirt and jeans Bond had left for him, swiping a towel through the mess of his hair. He sat on the bed and began to put on his socks and boots while Bond did a final check of the bathroom, wiping down Q's blood-spattered laptop with another damp towel and adding that towel to the trash bag.

Q was standing in the middle of the room, looking a bit lost. Bond slotted Q's laptop into his messenger bag and dropped it over Q's shoulder. Q automatically shifted the strap across his body and Bond handed him the case of electronics.

"Go out the terrace door as if you're going for a walk. Head west on Strömgatan. The Central Train Station is just over a kilometre from here. Take the next train to Uppsala. Check into the Raddison Blu with your backup passport. I'll clean up here and find you. Do you understand?"

"I don't think we should split up..."

"Q." Bond interrupted sharply. " _This is what I do._  If you get a secure connection from the train, contact MI6 and let them know what happened, and wipe as much footage as you can from the hotel cameras. I'll come by car and meet you with the rest of your luggage. Now _go._ "

A muscle twitched in Q's jaw, but he nodded once curtly and then walked swiftly to the door, leaving without a second glance.

Bond left the room again, finding the housekeeping cart while the chambermaid was in another room and burying his trash bag at the bottom of the other trash. He did one last sweep of the room and then carried the luggage downstairs.

He flirted shamelessly with the desk clerk while watching plainclothes police officers filter in, snapping orders in low undertones.

"You and Mr. Darcy are leaving us so soon, Mr. Somerset? Such a shame!" the lovely blonde desk clerk asked.

Bond leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a purr. "Sadly, yes. I'd love to stay but my colleague," — he rolled his eyes — "...is all work and no play. He's dragging us off to Copenhagen for our next meeting."

The desk clerk leaned in as well, staring at Bond coquettishly through her long hair. "Well, perhaps you'll visit us again some time."

Bond handed the keys over, brushing her fingers as he did so. "I certainly will."

He nodded graciously at the plainclothes detective who was approaching the desk and continued on his way.

* * *


	10. The Mistake

* * *

After checking out of the Grand Hotel in Stockholm, Bond had taken an extra hour to muddy their trail.

He drove their rental car to the airport, returning it and entering the terminal. In a restroom he had disabled a security camera and changed clothing, putting on a hat and sunglasses and waiting until a large tour group passed by to blend in, using them as cover as he left the terminal building. He hired a taxi back into central Stockholm, where he had rented a new car with his backup passport and credit card.

Now he was finally in Uppsala, looking foward to a stiff drink and a long shower.

"Kan jag hjälpa dig?" asked the lovely young blonde woman behind the registration desk at the Radisson.

_Christ, they all looked alike,_ he thought as he leaned forward, reading her nametag.

"Maja." He smiled winningly at her. "I'm meeting a colleague here. Quillan Wickham, he must have checked in a short time ago. Could you ring up to the room for me?"

He casually stayed leaning forward, so he could watch for the room number as she dialed.

Instead, a look of confusion crossed her face. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm the only one at the desk this evening and I don't recall..."

She tapped a few keys on the computer. "No one by that name has checked in this evening. Perhaps he was delayed?"

Bond kept his expression carefully relaxed. "That must be it. I'll wait at the bar."

_Bloody, bloody, fuck_.

Trains from Stockholm to Uppsala left every twenty minutes at the least. Q should have arrived more than an hour ago, at the very latest. Something had gone wrong, and Bond had no bloody idea what.

Bond sat at the bar, drinking Scotch and scanning the lobby, the knot in his stomach growing tighter and tighter with every passing minute. Had Q been detained by the police? Even worse, could MacMillan have had confederates, who might have captured him?

Bond thought of Q as he had last seen him — dazed and probably traumatized, but resolute. He hadn't wanted to split up, but Bond had insisted. What had he been thinking? Instead of keeping Q close, where he could protect him, he had sent him out alone. Unguarded.

Bond signaled for another drink. He pulled out his mobile, checking it for probably the twentieth time. He could try calling Q, but if Q had been taken into custody the call would be noticed. Right now there was nothing to directly tie Q to the shootings. It was Bond who was armed with the murder weapon, and it was Bond who had been seen by the tourists outside. Contacting Q had the potential to compromise them both. He would wait. He gave himself an hour before he tried to contact either Q or MI6.

Fifty more minutes passed, with Bond's nerves winding tighter every passing second. He hardly noticed when the bartender replaced his drinks, fear swirling in his gut as his traitorous mind conjured up images of Q in a variety of nightmarish scenarios. Q, captured by 003's associates, being tortured for information. Q, in some foreign detention cell, wondering why Bond had abandoned him. Q...

...walking in the door of the hotel, looking exhausted but otherwise unscathed. Relief washed over Bond in a wave, making him almost giddy.  _Christ, he had let his imagination run away with him._

Quick on the heels of the relief came a sudden, irrational anger. Who was Q to make him feel this way — to have Bond so wound up in knots he could barely think straight? What in the  _hell_  was it about the quartermaster that made Bond feel so raw and vulnerable, in a way he hadn't felt since Vesper, had sworn never to feel again...

Bond watched as the desk clerk gestured in his direction. Q looked over, his eyes scanning Bond, and he had the gall to look... _disapproving_.

_Bloody hell_ , Bond thought pugnaciously,  _all this time being nearly frantic about Q, and apparently Q hadn't even been a jot concerned about_ _my_ _safety._

He mutinously knocked back the last drink in one gulp, leaving an exorbitant amount of kronor on the bar and picking up their suitcases. He got to the elevator just as Q stepped in, both of them riding up in strained silence.

Q put the keycard in the door, pushing it open when the light turned green. Bond followed him into the room, throwing the suitcases in the corner before finally letting his ire have free rein.

"What took you so bloody long?" he snapped.

Q dropped his messenger bag and the electronics case on the bed and wheeled around, equal venom in his voice. "It may come as a surprise to you, 007, but I don't  _actually_ control the trains. There was a mechanical problem."

Bond was spoiling for a fight, and would not be deflected so easily. "You could have troubled yourself to call me."

Q's eyes were flashing green fire behind his thick glasses. "Oh, I  _do_  apologize. I was just a tad distracted by wiping all the evidence of your high noon shootout!"

Bond clenched his hands into fists. "Perhaps I should have just let MacMillan shoot you in the head. Is  _that_  what you would have preferred?"

Q took a step forward, anger in every line of his slender body. "I would have  _preferred_  if you would have let me do my job! I could have hacked the killcodes and we would have the data right now instead of being at another dead end. I could have had it — I was  _moments_  away!"

Bond strode closer, forcing Q to take an unconscious step back. "You were moments away from being  _blown to pieces_ , because you were too bloody stubborn to admit that you were outsmarted.  _Again_ ," Bond said acidly.

Q's mouth set into a pale, stiff line. "I'm not talking about this with you anymore. You're drunk," he said contemptuously.

The bloody  _cheek_  of the man, Bond thought wildly. " _I'm_  not the one who isn't thinking straight here. You just can't admit that someone got the better of you."

"You should have trusted me!" Q hissed, and Bond felt something in him snap.  _He should have_ _trusted_ _Q?!_  He did  _nothing_  but trust Q! Trusted him completely, in a way that left Bond raw and exposed, and what did he get in return?  _Nothing_.

Q was as distant and unflappable as the day they met. A cold bloody fish was what he was, yanking on Bond's emotions, making him dance like a goddamned puppet, and feeling nothing in return. Bloody  _taunting_  him, with his pale slender fingers and that mobile red mouth, but never coming close enough to touch...

Bond felt the sudden, irresistible impulse, to break through Q's detachment. There was a spark of something between them, there bloody  _was_ , whether Q would admit it or not, and Bond felt an overwhelming, irrational urge to set that spark ablaze.

He lunged forward, pressing Q back against the wall with his body, smashing his lips into that incredible mouth, inhaling Q's startled gasp. Q made a muffled noise and Bond pressed forward, licking into his mouth, his tongue devouring.

God, he felt like his blood was burning in his veins as he finally got to taste Q, to feel his body slender and yet whipcord strong underneath his hands. He growled his pleasure into Q's mouth before smearing lips across his stubbled jaw, sucking bites down that tender neck he had admired for so long.

" _James,"_  Q was saying urgently, straining against him, but Bond ignored him, pressing closer, pushing his whole body into that sweetness, breathing in the delicious scent of Q's sweat-damp skin. Christ, he wanted Q so badly, wanted to take him apart and make him sob with pleasure...

" _007! Stand_ _down_ _!"_

Q's sharp words crashed over Bond like a bucket of ice water. He jerked back, blinking away the haze of lust that was thickening his veins and muddling his thoughts.

Q was pressed against the wall by Bond's body, stretched in a long line from where Bond held his wrists pinned above his head — bloody hell, when had he done  _that?_  — and he was  _shaking_.

Bond pulled his hands off Q as if he had been burned, taking a stumbling step back. The room seemed to tilt around him for a moment as cold, nauseating shock bloomed in his gut.  _What had he done?_

"Q?" he began uncertainly. "I..."

Like quicksilver Q slid out from between Bond's body and the wall. Bond instinctively made a grab for him before aborting the movement equally suddenly, pulling his hand back, clenching it into a fist so tight that even his short nails cut into his palm.

He struggled for something to say, something to do, but all he could think of was the ghastly magnitude of his misjudgment. Instead he stood, frozen in stupor, as Q silently slipped out the door of the hotel room, closing it behind him with a soft click.

* * *

 


	11. The Aftermath

Bond sat on the end of the bed, his pounding head in his hands, his gut roiling with guilt and regret.

_What in the bloody fuck had he done?_

He lifted his head, staring numbly at his calloused, scarred palms as if they belonged to a stranger. Christ, his hands were trembling. Q had been right, he was pathetically drunk, his blood still buzzing with the combination of alcohol on top of post-mission adrenaline and no food, but that was no explanation. No  _excuse_.

He had taken these killer's hands, and put them on Q. With no regard to Q's wishes. No, even worse —  _against Q's will._  He had pawed at Q, smeared his drunken mouth on him, made him  _shake with fear..._

Bond forced himself to take a deep breath, swallowing down the bile that was rising in his throat. He was a bastard, he knew that already. A thug and a whore for queen and country, not fit for polite company. With Q, though, he had somehow forgotten. He had started to think that maybe he was someone different. Someone better. And now that illusion had been shattered, his true nature brutally, indisputably, exposed to them both.

And Q. Beautiful, brilliant Q. Bright, intriguing, Q with his pale skin and elegant movements and his witty, sensitive mouth. Bond had grasped at that beautiful form and dazzling mind, had tainted it with his clumsy hands and slavering mouth. He doubted that Q could bear to look at him now.

The very idea of a future without Q in it — he suddenly felt the loss like a missing limb. No more smooth, posh voice in his ear on missions. No more lively discussions to ease the tedium of his time between assignments. He hadn't realized how much he had come to value Q's compelling, steady company until he had lost it.

Now Q was out somewhere with only the contents of his pockets, driven away by Bond's irrational anger and base lust. Christ, Q was not a field agent, yet he had just seen a man's head blown off in front of him and had held it together with remarkable composure. He was probably still traumatized, still vulnerable, and Bond had tried to take advantage of that vulnerability.

Q's soft voice echoed in Bond's mind in gentle rebuke.  _You said you would be there for me._  Christ, what Bond wouldn't give to undo the last few hours, to have another chance to be the friend that Q deserved.

Bond sat on the bed for the rest of the night and into the dawn, his thoughts circling in an endless litany of self-loathing and bitter regret. He was so lost in the mire of his thoughts he hardly heard the beep of the keycard in the door.

He belatedly jerked his head up, ignoring the spike of pain that resulted from the sudden movement. Q was standing in the doorway, his face pale but composed, the dark smudges under his vivid green eyes only partially obscured by the lower edge of his glasses.

Those brilliant eyes looked Bond over, and whatever he saw seemed to soften the expression on Q's face. He stepped fully inside the room, letting the door click softly behind him.

"You look like shit," he told Bond calmly.

Bond had so many things he had planned to say when he saw Q again — explanations and apologies and sincere vows to never overstep again, and yet to his surprise what came out of his mouth was none of those things.

"Will you still work with me?" he found himself saying, his voice rusty with disuse.

Q sighed. He moved closer, sitting down carefully on the end of the bed, less than a foot away from Bond.

"Of course I'll still work with you, 007," he said, his voice quiet and pragmatic. "This was a misunderstanding, no more and no less. I am sorry that I left so suddenly. It was...unprofessional of me."

Bond barked a bitter laugh. "Unprofessional," he repeated in disbelief. "Of  _you?_ " He felt the bile rise up in his throat again. "Q, I bloody  _assaulted_  you."

To Bond's surprise Q tsked in irritation.

"Really, 007? This melodrama doesn't become you. You were, I will grant, completely drunk and woefully oblivious. But my reaction was my own, and not something you could have anticipated."

Q's grey-green eyes captured Bond's gaze, lit with a sudden, intense, consideration. He seemed to make up his mind about something, taking in a deep breath and letting it out with the slightest hitch.

"I should have told you when I realized we would be working so closely together." His dark lashes shaded the vivid brightness of his eyes for a moment. "I — I do not like to be touched."

Bond blinked for a long moment before the words made sense. He felt himself squinting at Q, as if somehow that would help him decipher his meaning through a head thick with exhaustion and hangover and regret. "What — not by anyone? Not at all?" Some part of him had been torturing himself with the thought of Q running home to be petted and comforted by his mystery woman.

Q looked away, hitching one shoulder in a half-shrug. "No. Not by anyone. Not at all," he repeated somewhat grimly.

_I'll kill whoever it was,_  Bond thought with sudden, icy certainty. "Q, did — did someone hurt..."

Q interrupted Bond impatiently. "You can stop your rampant speculation right there, 007," he said sharply, his expression peeved. "You needn't paint me in your mind as some kind of...trauma victim. My story is no more nor less tragic than yours, or anyone else's at MI6 for that matter. Skeletons abound in everyone's closets at MI6, and I am not giving you carte blanche to look in mine. I am just communicating what you need to know for the issue at hand."

"But..." Bond ran a hand through his cropped hair, feeling befuddled even as Q's pragmatic attitude eased some of the tension and guilt that had been racking his mind and body over the last few hours.

Q looked down at his hands, the pale fingers twisting together nervously, belying his otherwise matter-of-fact demeanor.

"Consider it an...eccentricity," he said, with a vague gesture of one slim-fingered hand. "I can tolerate touch if I am expecting it, but I..." He trailed off as if uncertain how to put it into words. "I do not like to be startled," he finally settled on. "I have made some minimal adjustments in my life, and it hardly affects me at all. Almost no one notices," he said, looking back at his hands.

Bloody hell, Bond had been blind. He was a goddamned double-oh — he was supposed to be preternaturally observant, supposed to read people for a  _living_  — and he had completely overlooked every sign. Thinking back, it was glaringly obvious. Bond ran every interaction with Q through his mind, realizing that Q hadn't touched his skin since they first shook hands in that gallery. Bond shook his head as a hundred disconnected observations clicked into place. "You always use the tray for equipment, instead of handing it to me. And the way R leaves tea at the corner of your desk..."

Q looked at Bond sharply, as if wondering if he were being mocked, but then nodded. "I use my computer system to know when someone is behind me, I avoid the Tube at rush hour, little things like that. It's not hard, really, even in London. People don't really choose to get close to me." Something in Q's eyes shifted. "You have been uniquely persistent in that regard," he said, with just the faintest undertone of a question in his voice.

Bond thought about that time late at night when he had put his hand on Q's shoulder, and Q had stumbled back in startlement. And then that time when 003 was running amok...

"You really meant it, when you said I was terrorizing you with my visits," Bond said, his voice raspy with emotion. He felt his stomach flip at the thought. It wasn't just last night. He had been forcing his unwanted presence on Q all this time...

" _No,"_  Q said firmly. "It's somewhat endearing that you are so eager to cast yourself as the villain in this piece, but it's really not that simple." He huffed out a frustrated breath. "I don't talk about this, really. I feel like I don't — I don't have the vocabulary. But it's important for you to know — I enjoy your company. I like talking to you. I liked you visiting Q-Branch. But I was always very... _aware_...of you. And I didn't understand..."

Q broke off, looking irritated at himself for saying too much, but in Bond's mind he hadn't said enough.

"What is it, Q? Surely you can tell me now." Bond felt like he had to understand. If Q was giving him another chance then he had to be certain he didn't make any more mistakes.

Q huffed another breath, a slow flush of pink sliding up his neck, but his eyes were direct when he looked at Bond again. "What is it you want from me?" He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I understand last night, the alcohol and the post-mission stress, and I was...convenient. And I know you are an inveterate flirt, everyone at MI6 knows not to take that seriously. But there are other times that I get the sense..." The flood of words trailed away.

Bond felt ridiculously thick-headed. He could not seem to figure out what Q was asking. His blankness must have shown.

Q took another deep breath and started again. "At first I thought that you were mocking me. Just poking fun at the boffin. And then I thought that maybe you wanted something from Q-Branch. Some special concession, or...the double-ohs use sex as a weapon, everyone knows that. But you didn't ask for anything..." he broke off with another shrug.

Bond finally had a glimmer of understanding, and he didn't know whether he should be furious or amused. He decided to take Q's points more or less one by one. "I was definitely not mocking you. Last night had nothing to do with  _convenience_. And I was not — what? — whoring myself out for  _exploding pens?_ " He couldn't help the bitter edge to his voice, knowing that Q had thought so little of them both. "Q, the only thing I wanted from Q-Branch was  _you_."

Whatever the reaction he hoped to get, it was not the narrow-eyed look he received. "That's what I mean," Q said in frustration. "You say things like that, and...what is the _purpose?_  If you wanted sex surely there are more than enough beautiful women falling over themselves to jump into your bed, on missions or off of them. What on earth are you seeking from _me?_ "

Bond buried his head in his hands, half his brain still reeling from the idea that he was sitting on a bed with his quartermaster, talking about his bloody  _feelings_.

"Q," he finally said. "Surely somebody has wanted you before. Is it so ridiculous to think that I might also?"

Q continued to regard Bond suspiciously. "Forgive me if I find it hard to believe that after a lifetime of gorgeous femmes fatales your tastes have suddenly run to pale, skinny, floppy-haired boffins."

Bond's anger was starting to win out over his exasperation. "First of all, it hasn't just been  _femmes_  fatales," he said icily. "Being a double-oh requires a certain level of...flexibility, and I have that in spades. It doesn't make the mission reports as often — most of those at higher levels are from a different time and discretion was always advisable, but it has always been well understood."

He saw the surprise and sudden understanding flash across Q's face. Christ, the pup really  _had_  been that naive about some of the office politics of the intelligence service.

"Second," Bond continued doggedly. "Although you don't seem to recognize it at all you are, Q, a beautiful man. Beautiful and brilliant and witty and infinitely desirable, and — I promise you —  _I will never touch you again without your permission."_

The blush had been steadily rising up Q's neck at Bond's words, and by the time he finished speaking Q was noticeably pink.

Q blinked at Bond a few times, looking flustered. "Oh," he said. "Er...I appreciate you telling me that." Q looked painfully young as some of the strain in his face eased. "Really, 007. All of it. Thank you," he said almost shyly.

Awkwardness seemed to settle over them both. Q cleared his throat, pulling his mobile from his pocket. "MI6 has straightened things out with the Säkerhetspolisen, so we're cleared to travel under our original passports. There's a flight in three hours, if that works for you?"

"That's fine."

"Breakfast, then?" Q asked.

"Absolutely. Coffee by the gallon," Bond quipped, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere.

Q pulled the messenger bag strap across his body, giving his computer an affectionate pat through the leather as if reassuring himself with its presence before smiling sheepishly at Bond. "Friends, then?" he asked earnestly.

Bond nodded. "Friends," he said with certainty in his voice, smiling at the clear relief that brightened Q's beautiful eyes at his reassurance.

He followed Q out the door, keeping a careful distance between them. Yet, he couldn't help replaying his own words in his head.  _I will never touch you again,_  he had meant to say, and yet that wasn't what had come out of his mouth.

_I will never touch you again_ _without your permission_ _._  That was what he had ended up saying. It was an important distinction, and one with which Q had not taken issue. Bond mused on that a bit as he followed Q down to the hotel restaurant.

_Friends,_  he thought to himself. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, added,  _For now._

* * *

 


	12. The Self-Reflection

Bond woke slowly, fuzzily, the way he only did when he was in his own flat. He turned over, burrowing deeper into his pillow. He had been dreaming — running his hands over pale slender limbs...kissing his way gently into a red, sweet, mobile mouth...twining his fingers into the beautiful chaos of dark hair...watching luminous green eyes grow dark with pleasure...

"Mmmnnngh..." Bond pulled the images from the dream in around him, reluctant to let go. He rutted slowly into his mattress, half-hard already and growing harder by the moment.

He felt himself sink back into a hazy dreamspace...not quite asleep but not quite awake. He imagined pulling that sweet body closer — nuzzling into the tender expanse of that pale neck, pressing his tongue warm and soft against the pulse point and feeling it grow more rapid beneath his mouth.

He drew his fingertips down the taut, flat expanse of his own abdomen, imagining slim, elegant fingers tracing that path instead. He lazily palmed his cock, feeling his arousal pool and surge, honey-thick in his spine and belly. In his mind he was sucking bites down an alabaster neck, marking and licking his way across a pale chest, feeling the slender body underneath him arch and groan in pleasure.

He pushed harder and faster into his own fist, rumbling another deep groan, as the images flashed more rapidly, blurring together. A soft gasp of pleasure in his ear as he pushed in, tight and hot and slick. The feel of a sharp collarbone beneath his tongue, the huff of soft breath against his neck as he thrust into that sweetness, hard and deep, making the body beneath his moan and shudder. Wordless little gasps of entreaty that he smothered with his mouth, invading and possessing, surrounding and owning...

"James," the voice breathed into his ear, posh and rich and thick with desire.  _"James."_

" _Q,"_ Bond said aloud. His eyes flew open in surprise just as the first thick pulses of pleasure started and then he was coming hard, hips stuttering and churning as he bucked into his own damp fist, breath rasping in his chest until he felt almost light-headed and weak.

" _Christ,"_  he breathed into his pillow, still twitching with aftershocks. He distantly thought that he should feel guilty, but all he felt was satisfied and replete. He wallowed in the sensation, in the last traces of the fantasy. Bloody hell, imagined sex with Q was better than most of the real sex Bond had experienced.

He lay, thinking idly of Q's many delightful attributes, until the damp and sticky feeling became irritating. Then he forced himself out of bed, pulling open the blackout curtains, letting the late afternoon sunlight filter into the flat. He checked the time, surprised to find that he had slept for thirteen hours. He took a long hot shower before turning the water icy cold in the last few minutes to bring himself to full awareness.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, towel around his waist, absently lathering up his weathered face with shaving soap. His body still felt loose-limbed and lazy from the truly indulgent amount of sleep and the even more luxurious orgasm. As he scraped the straight razor over his stubbled skin, his thoughts returned inexorably to Q.

_Friends,_  he had told Q. Should he feel guilty about feeling such sexual desire for a friend? Bond had few real friends in his life. Alec, although they were rarely in the same city at the same time. Perhaps M had been his friend, despite her caustic manner. He certainly had grieved for her in a way he had for few in his life. And yet certainly he had lusted after neither, with the undeniable attraction he felt for Q.

Vesper? Bond froze, the ice-blue eyes in the mirror looking back at him in startlement. Vesper had been his lover, and his love, but had she been his  _friend?_ He had never really thought of it before, and something about it made him uncomfortable. There had always been a part of Vesper that she kept from him. She was free with her affection, but she held her secrets close. At the time, Bond hadn't minded — had found it intriguing, even. And yet those secrets had betrayed them both, burying their love in Vesper's watery grave.

Maybe this was the central flaw in Bond's character, the one that made him a good operative and absolute shit at just about any other relationship in his life. He had no real memories of being a son, he had never been a brother, he would never be a father. Friends could be counted on one hand. He had only had one love, and she had been a construct, a false creation designed to manipulate Bond. And lovers had been legion, sex simply just another bodily function for Bond — a release of tension, a cold comfort, a means to an end.

And then there was Q, a law unto himself, flitting back and forth between both categories and neither. An object of desire, but untouchable. A friend, but with secrets buried deep. It should make Bond unsettled, knowing there were things Q wasn't telling him, but there was one important difference.

" _I've never lied to you, 007. Not about anything."_  Q's soft voice echoed in Bond's mind.

Bond nodded to himself, starting to scrape the razor across his skin again. That was the difference, and it was a vital one.

" _Skeletons abound in everyone's closets at MI6, and I am not giving you carte blanche to look in mine."_

Q acknowledged his secrets, told Bond openly that they existed and trusted Bond not to pry. Bitter and suspicious as Bond was, that soothed him even more than believing someone had a spotless past. Now that he thought of it, something else Q had said niggled at his brain.

" _My story is no more nor less tragic than yours, or anyone else's at MI6 for that matter."_

It hadn't struck him at the time, but now Bond took note of that careful wording, and the considerable amount of latitude implied within. Bond's story had plenty of tragedy, starting with the accidental death of his parents. Alec's story was even worse, losing his parents through murder-suicide. Although he rarely spoke about it, Tanner had lost one of his children to leukemia. Hell, Mallory himself had spent three months in the hands of the IRA, and those were just the ones he knew about.

Now that he thought of it, as far as tragic stories went they were all a sorry lot. As M had said, orphans made the best recruits, and the all-consuming lifestyle a career in espionage required was hardly attractive to the well-adjusted. Yet, they had one other thing in common. They had all made the decision to put the past behind them. To learn from it and to move on, undeniably damaged but not completely broken.

Q's past obviously affected him, but he didn't let it consume him. He was still brilliant, and lively, and caring. And if something had happened in his past that had made him dislike touch, then Bond couldn't help wondering if it could be undone. Bond grimaced at his reflection in the mirror, forcing the thought out of his mind. If Q wanted to let his past lie buried, Bond could understand that. God knows he had things in his past that were better left unexamined.

Bond scrubbed his face with a warm, wet towel, throwing it carelessly on the counter before starting to dress. As convenient as it would be for Bond's past sins to stay buried, that was never the case. And yet Q was privy to more information about Bond than anyone else still living. Q had read Bond's file, he had made no secrets about that.

" _Trust issues,"_ he had said.  _"That's plastered all over your file. I suppose I've just never seen it before"_

Bond knew that his file was brutally, mercilessly comprehensive, and everything that was documented Q now knew. The string of broken hearts and broken bodies Bond had left in his wake, friends and enemies alike. The humiliation of Vesper's betrayal. Q knew what Bond was, and yet, inexplicably, he wanted to be Bond's friend anyway. Even more than that — he had  _fought_  for that friendship. Had sought Bond out when Bond would have pulled away, had shared with Bond something he rarely discussed, if ever — just to keep Bond's friendship. It was...unprecedented.

Bond poked around in his refrigerator, ultimately deciding there was nothing edible and he would have to go out. He usually loathed self-reflection — it always left him feeling unsatisfied and despondent. Now, however, he felt better than he had since this mission started. Settled, somehow. Grounded.

He would be the friend he had promised to Q. Even in the short time they had spent traveling home Q had seemed much more relaxed around Bond, trusting him implicitly not to touch now that he had given his vow. And if he surreptitiously continued to desire Q? Well, what happened in the privacy of his own mind would be none of Q's concern. Life was short and brutal for a double-oh, and Bond had never been one to begrudge himself from taking his pleasures where he could.

On that note, Bond wondered if Q was still snug in his bed, or if he had already made it in to MI6. There was an excellent patisserie just down the street from the new building. Perhaps Bond would indulge in a chocolate croissant, and pick one up for Q as well. The man needed feeding up.

_This is the kind of thing friends do,_  Bond thought, rather pleased with himself for the idea. And, if he passed the time during the short walk with idle speculation about what it would be like to lick chocolate from Q's clever lips...well, that would remain his secret.

* * *

 

 


	13. The Questions

[Author's Note:  Oh, hey, I'm on Tumblr now!  Still trying to figure it out, but you can find me [here](http://drgrlfriend.tumblr.com/).]

* * *

It was almost uncanny, how easily Bond and Q slid back into the friendship they had established. Q remained in Bond's ear on missions — sometimes wry, sometimes philosophical, but always there when he was needed, calm and decisive no matter the crisis. Bond's mission success rate was unparalleled, his injuries sustained minimal, and he knew that he had Q to thank for that.

Between missions Bond lurked around HQ more than ever before, chatting with Q over the earpiece or lingering in Q-Branch. Q had his own office, walled in smart glass that turned from clear to opaque with the touch of a button. If the electronic lock was green Bond had carte blanche to enter, and he often exercised that privilege. After the third time coming upon Q asleep at his desk, Bond had left silently and returned an hour later with 006, each of them carrying one end of a massive leather sofa.

Q had sprung awake as they muscled the couch through the narrow doorway and into the office, his cheek endearingly bearing the imprint of the buttons from his cuff and his hair sticking up in all directions from the fretful hand he ran through it.

"007! What...?"

"A little to the left," Bond instructed Trevelyan. "Yes, a bit more. Right. Q, you'd better move that rack of servers..."

Q jumped to the defense of his precious servers, rolling them over a touch as Bond and Alec set the sofa down with relieved sighs. Bond sketched a quick salute in Alec's direction. Alec nodded to Q, his grass-green eyes brightly amused, and left while Bond settled himself on the couch.

"What...where did this even  _come_  from?" Q managed, still blinking sleepily. "Is that...wasn't that in...?"

"Mallory was redecorating," Bond said suavely. He lolled back ostentatiously, crossing his arms behind his head.

Q prodded suspiciously at the unoccupied end of the sofa as if it might jump up and bite him. "Was he really?"

Bond cast Q a sidelong glance. "Well, he will now."

Q's laugh was unexpected and delightful. He sat down on the other end of the sofa, carefully mimicking Bond's sprawling posture. "It is comfortable," he acknowledged, still shaking from time to time with suppressed mirth.

"Mmmm," Bond agreed, closing his eyes.

"I'm never getting you out of my office now, am I?" Q said with a smile in his voice. Bond just smiled in return, settling in.

* * *

Q-Branch was dark, only a single pool of light illuminating Q's standing desk. The last of the overachieving minions had fled an hour ago as the clock edged past midnight. R was napping in medical, waiting to be called in, but Q had insisted on remaining on duty until 009 had checked in from Port Said.

Bond had pulled up one of the other desk chairs and was turning it in lazy circles back and forth. He had just finished telling Q stories of his own travels in Egypt. He idly thought of a particular little coffee shop in Luxor that he would love to take Q to...

Moneypenny had joined them on this particular nightwatch, Mallory having asked for an update on 009's mission as soon as he reported in. She had been amusing herself with her mobile, but now she groaned dramatically.

"This is intolerable," she whinged. "I hate waiting."

"I can text you when 009 reports," Q said patiently. "It's not like your mobile is ever out of your hands."

"I have a better idea," she said with a mischievous grin. She pushed her chair back, settling her stiletto-clad feet up on a nearby desk. "Entertain me. Tell me something exciting."

"Exciting?" Q repeated blankly.

"Dirty," Eve specified.

"Did I ever tell you about that time in Milan..." Bond began.

"Not  _you_ , Bond," Eve interrupted impatiently. "Your sexual exploits are a matter of public record. I want to know about the boffin."

Bond looked at Eve sharply and then to Q. Eve didn't seem to notice the slight tension that had stiffened Q's spine, but to Bond it was as obvious as a neon sign.

"I am singularly unexciting, I assure you, Moneypenny," Q said dismissively. Despite the new tension in his muscles he carefully maintained his slump-shouldered position over his standing desk, his eyes cast down at his keyboard.

"Oh, don't be a bore, Q," Eve retorted jovially. "I bet underneath all those cardigans you're a veritable tiger. C'mon, share something with the class. First love, first snog, anything...oh don't  _blush_ , Q, surely you've got  _something_  to add to our little late-night confessional?"

"You're being a pest, Moneypenny," Bond rumbled, keeping his voice casual. He was trying hard not to overreact, knowing that Moneypenny wasn't acting maliciously. She was just being remarkably oblivious, and he knew Q would not appreciate Bond drawing attention to the situation by jumping to his defense.

"Fine, then," Eve huffed. She looked downcast for a moment, and then her face brightened. "Celebrity crushes. Tell me, Q, do you fancy a Kate Beckinsale, or are you more the Cheryl Cole type?" Q continued to stare down at his keyboard, his brow furrowed.

"Or...oh!" Eve pulled her feet off the desk, sitting up eagerly. "Do you share my obsession with the utter deliciousness that is Benedict Cumberbatch? Those eyes..." She closed her own eyes, shivering dramatically.

"Who is that, then?" Q asked, the strain in his voice under the casual tone painfully obvious to Bond, but apparently not to Moneypenny.

Eve's eyes flew open. "You don't know who Benedict Cumberbatch is? My god, Q, do you live in a  _cave?!"_

Q shrugged.

"Never mind him, then," Eve said. "What type  _do_  you fancy, Q? Because I know almost every unattached staff member in MI6..."

Q's hands had moved from the keyboard to the edge of the desk, and now they tightened, knuckles whitening with strain.

" _Enough,"_ Bond finally snapped, his voice low and furious.

Q finally raised his head, his vivid green eyes locking on Bond, the expression in them unreadable. The air between them seemed heavy and charged with emotion.

Eve looked at Bond in surprise. "Oh," she said. She sounded suddenly hesitant. "Q, did I..."

"009, reporting." The deep voice over the comm system made them all jump.

Lips pressed in a tight line, Q punched a button on his desk. "Q here, go ahead."

"Objective achieved. I have the documents in my possession. Had to leave in a hurry, though, hopped a cargo ferry to Athens. Can you arrange a new passport for travel from that departure point?"

"I'll update Mallory," Eve said, casting them both an apologetic look. "Good night, all." She was already dialing her mobile as her high heels clicked out of the room.

"I certainly can," Q informed 009. "Putting the booking through now, Agean Airlines flight 600, leaving at 09:15. Will that give you enough time to stop by the British Embassy for your new documents?"

Bond tuned them out as they finalized the arrangements, his mind still dwelling on Moneypenny's line of inquiry and his own excessive reaction. Christ, he had embarrassed himself, and from Q's stiff expression he had embarrassed Q as well.

Q signed off with 009 and called R in to cover the Branch. Bond watched as Q packed up his messenger bag and tidied his desk, before following Bond to the parking garage in strained silence. It was understood that Bond would be giving Q a ride home, he did most nights that they were both at HQ late. Bond wondered now when exactly that pattern had been established.

Bond pulled out of the garage. Q gazed out his window, showing Bond only the curve of his cheekbone and the long, vulnerable stretch of his pale neck. Bond swallowed, and shifted his eyes resolutely back to the road. Even London had minimal traffic at this hour. They would be at Q's gate in fifteen minutes, but Bond cracked after the the first five.

"I didn't mean to..." he said, just as Q started speaking as well.

"You can go ahead and ask..." Q was saying.

They exchanged a glance. Q's mouth quirked, and Bond huffed a soft laugh.

"It's your business, Q," Bond said carefully. But goddammit, he wanted to know. Needed to know, if he was honest with himself.

Q shrugged. "I don't mind. You already know the worst of it."

Bond mulled that over, wondering if it was statement of a simple fact or an invitation. Did Q  _want_  to talk?

"Would you say that you are...asexual, then?" Bond hazarded. The word seemed awkward, unfamiliar in his mouth.

Q's laugh was sharp and bitter. "God, no. Convenient as that would be.  And to answer your next question, I have a perfectly functioning libido. One of life's little ironies, I suppose."

Bond made a thoughtful hum. "So you..."

Q's look was scathing. "Yes, I wank, 007. Honestly!"

Bond shrugged, trying to look unaffected by the image that conjured up. Q in his bed, the pale expanse of his body over crisp sheets, twisting underneath his own hand...

Q's eyelashes came down to shade his eyes almost shyly, a slight blush tinging his cheekbones. "And Benedict Cumberbatch is God's gift to socially isolated wankers everywhere."

Bond snorted. "And you pretended you didn't even know him!" He let that piece of information filter in. "So you're..."

"Gay. Yes," Q supplied, his voice clipped. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Now it was Bond's turn to supply the scathing look. "Why on earth would it be?"

Q shrugged, looking out the window again.

"You know, you don't have to worry about Moneypenny either, or even Mallory and the rest of them. I know what I said about office politics, but that was a different time."

"That's not..." Q ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Trust me, I don't give a damn about potential homophobia in the workplace." He sighed, resting his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. "Moneypenny has become a hopeless romantic since she started dating that bloke in Medical. I know her type. It starts with celebrity crushes, and then moves on to 'I know a lovely young bachelor in Accounting, I'll fix you up,' and it's simply a nightmare from there. I've learned that it's easier just to...to shut people out, right from the start."

"That sounds...lonely," Bond found himself saying.

Q's eyes snapped open, angry and somehow...wounded. "I don't need your pity, 007," he gritted out.

Bond fixed him with an unwavering gaze. "It's not pity. It's just...a thank you. For letting me in, I mean."

"Oh." Q's blush intensified. "It's...easier, with you. Somehow."

Bond pondered that for awhile. He was expert at coaxing information from the unwilling, but it had never been that way with Q. Somehow he and Q just seemed to connect, right from the start, despite the frankly hideous misunderstandings along the way.

"It's easy for me too," Bond finally said, and any foolishness he felt in making that somewhat vague statement was erased by Q's luminous smile.

They drove the last few minutes in comfortable silence. Bond rattled the car across the paving stones, pulling up in front of Q's wrought-iron gate.

"Thank you for the ride, 007," Q said formally, as he did every time.

"Any time, Q," Bond said in return, as he did every time.

Q reached for the door handle, and then turned back. He seemed to hesitate for just a moment and then slowly, awkwardly, extended his right hand.

Bond stared at those pale, elegant fingers uncomprehendingly for a split second before his brain kicked into gear.  _You don't have to,_ he thought, but his eyes leaped up to Q's and something in Q's strangely hopeful gaze stopped his words.

He reached out slowly, sliding his fingers into Q's grasp. It was less of a handshake and more of a rough grip — awkward and yet oddly affecting, much like Q himself. Bond gave himself another moment to enjoy the sensation. This was the first time he had felt Q's touch on his skin since they met, and the thought of it was strangely heady.

He gave Q's hand a gentle squeeze, and drew back. Q was smiling outright, and Bond knew he was smiling in return.

"Yes. Well," Q said, as if something had been settled. "Good night, 007."

"Good night, Q."

Bond watched as Q made his way past the gate and into the house.

He sat for a few minutes in silence before turning the car and driving home in the dark night. The gear shift was smooth and responsive in the palm of his left hand. The palm of his right hand gripped the steering wheel but somehow, underneath it all, he fancied that he could still feel the echo of Q's touch.

* * *

 


	14. The Anniversary

Bond sat in his darkened flat, letting his thumbnail crackle slightly over the seal on the bottle of Scotch. He hadn't opened it yet, but it was a matter of time.

He knew he was a cliche, sitting here in the dark, wallowing in his grief and bitterness. It always came down to this, didn't it? The three constants in his life: shadows, Scotch, and loneliness.

He had done what he could to avoid this very situation, practically begging Mallory for an assignment, for some kind of a distraction. The pity in Mallory's eyes had sent a hot flare of anger through his belly.

"Not this week," the bastard had said. "We need you with a level head."

Well, fuck Mallory. Bond was going to drink until he fell down tonight, and see how fucking level his head was in the morning.

Two years. At least last year he had the distraction, his vengeance burning like acid in his belly, driving him forward as he systematically destroyed Quantum. Now he had nothing, just an empty flat and a full bottle. It had a kind of grim poetry to it. He couldn't forget, so instead he would try to drown himself in that amber liquid, just as Vesper had drowned in the murky water of the canal two years ago...

The brisk knock at his door had his head jerking up, his hand at his weapon before he even processed it. He felt a spike of irritation. Some bloody delivery getting the address wrong, no doubt. They'd go away. He leaned his head back against the sofa again, thumb tracing the sharp edge of the seal one more time.

The second knock sent him from aggravation into full-blown rage.

"Bloody fuck," Bond fumed, levering himself off the sofa and banging the Scotch down on the coffee table. He almost hoped it was a fucking team of assassins, given the mood he was in.  _Let them bloody try_ , he raged to himself.

He should have moved to a flat with better security long ago, but secure flats were for those who gave a damn. Instead Bond flattened himself to the side of the door, ducking swiftly to look through the peephole.

The quick flash was enough to reveal a shaggy mop of dark hair, a glimmer of vivid green eyes, and the curve of a pale neck. Bond rested his head against the doorframe for a moment, considering.

"I hear you breathing, 007," Q said crisply.

Well,  _fuck_.

Bond cracked the door just enough to shoot a glare at Q.

"Just in the neighborhood?" he asked.

"Something like that." Q's voice was calm and composed, as ever, but his nervousness betrayed itself in little involuntary twitchy movements of his hands at his sides. "Care to invite me in?"

Bond opened the door a touch more. He saw Q take in the sight of his ripped jeans, his threadbare t-shirt, the two days' worth of stubble on his face that he couldn't be arsed to deal with.

"Why are you here, Q?" he said unkindly.

Q's nervous movements ceased suddenly, his body becoming almost unnaturally still, but he lifted his chin defiantly. "I'm your friend. If you don't want to talk, that's fine. I'm rubbish at it anyway. But I thought you might want company."

Bond felt a rush of hot shame wash over him. Of course this wasn't coincidence, Q turning up at his flat for the first time ever. He knew, probably everyone at MI6 knew. James Bond had been deceived and betrayed two years ago, and was still stumbling under the weight of his heartbreak and humiliation.

"No," Bond said bluntly. "I don't." He shut the door swiftly, decisively, not allowing himself to see Q's reaction. He waited for the footsteps to start back down the hall before throwing himself on the sofa, wrenching the top off the Scotch with a savage twist of his wrist.

Bloody hell. Q, showing up. What was he thinking? Everyone knew Bond was an unsociable bastard at the best of times. And today of all days...

_I'm your friend,_ Q had said.

Bond felt a curl of guilt in his belly, slowly spreading icy tendrils up into his chest. Of course it wasn't a coincidence. Q had thought that today of all days, he would need a friend.

Something occurred to Bond, and he checked his watch. It was barely six o'clock. Q must have left work on time for once. The pavement was mobbed this time in the evening. Had Q walked here, or had he braved the Tube at rush hour? Either situation was one that he would normally avoid at all costs. Bond set the bottle carefully down on the coffee table, moving toward the window.

Bond looked down at the busy street below. He saw Q pause on his front steps, as if girding himself, before sliding into the stream of pedestrian traffic. His shoulders were hunched with tension, his hands buried deep in his pockets. As Bond watched, a man walking in the other direction while texting on his mobile jostled Q, making him flinch.

"Fucking hell," Bond said, and before he knew it he was pelting down the stairs.

* * *

He caught up with Q within a few streets.

"Q," he said, so close now and yet unable to reach out and touch Q to get his attention.  _"Q!"_

Q turned around, his face set and pale, his eyes scanning over Bond. Bond felt ridiculously foolish, standing on the pavement like some character in a horrid romantic comedy — disheveled, barefoot, and panting slightly. Q's expression softened but he waited, cautiously, for Bond to say something more.

"There's an Indian takeaway on the corner," Bond finally said. "Do you like lamb vindaloo?"

Q's mouth quirked in that reluctant little smile of his. "It's my favorite."

* * *

Q approached his glass of Scotch as if he'd never encountered such a thing before, his tongue sticking out to lap at it like a cat tasting cream. Bond, perplexingly, found it both endearing and erotic, in a way he was absolutely sure he should be ashamed of.

"Not much of a drinker, then?" Bond said dryly, watching that delicate pink tongue dart out again.

"Not as such." Q graduated to taking a tentative sip. "I prefer to keep my wits about me."

Bond's mouth twisted bitterly at that. He took a gulp big enough to make Q wince. "That's Q-speak for never letting your guard down, isn't it?"

"Pot. Kettle." Q seemed to be fascinated by the movement of the ice cubes in the glass.

"Seriously, Q, did M find you in a monastery?"

Q shot Bond a sharp, unreadable glance, before snorting. "Hardly," he said. "Besides, don't monks make brandy, or brew beer, or that sort of thing?"

"I suppose some do." He lifted his glass in an ironic toast. "Congratulations, Q, you are godlier than a monk."

The words had barely left his mouth before Bond wished them back. Christ, that had been cruel, his tone openly mocking, and of course Q had picked up on it. He sat steadfast on the sofa but he looked smaller, diminished somehow, an unhappy downturn lurking at the corners of his mouth.

Bond felt like a complete shit. It wasn't as if Q had chosen to be... _chaste_. It was Bond's own weakness — his frustrated and dishonorable lust for the young man — that had him lashing out at Q.

" _Fuck,"_  Bond said feelingly. "I'm sorry, Q. I'm not fit company for anyone tonight."

Q stood up, and Bond tried to suppress the stab of disappointment he felt. It was for the best — of course Q should go, before Bond pulled him down into his pit of depression as well.

Instead Q removed his jacket, carefully folding it before draping it over a nearby chair. He settled back on the sofa, propping his feet up on the coffee table and taking a healthy swig of his Scotch, before staring Bond down.

"I was promised lamb vindaloo, and I'm getting lamb vindaloo," he said primly. "I should also mention that I've brought my taser, and I'm not above shocking you into next week if you get stroppy with me again."

Bond gaped at Q in stunned silence for a moment before the first chuckle welled up, rusty and reluctant, rolling through him. Q's deadpan expression only made it worse, until Bond was shaking with uncontrollable laughter. Finally he subsided in a wheezy, teary-eyed heap.

Q was looking at him as if he were some interesting new piece of technology he had yet to puzzle out.

"Thank you, Q," Bond said weakly, still chuckling from time to time. "For coming." He knocked back the last of his drink. "I'll fetch the lamb."

* * *

Q's pale skin grew flushed when he was tipsy, Bond was learning. His movements became more fluid as well, some of that stiff alertness seeping out of his posture, the small, efficient gestures of his hands becoming more expansive.

Bond knew that he had expected to be blind drunk by this point in the evening, but between the food and Q's company he had somehow managed to check his drinking without too much effort. The last time he had been drunk in Q's presence was all-too vivid in his memory, and he'd cut off his own hands before he would forcibly put them on Q again.

Surprisingly, instead of pulling him rapidly down into his usual well of depression and self-loathing, the more moderate levels of alcohol were buzzing in his bloodstream, making him feel strangely unconcerned about the whole situation. Combined with Q's steady, unquestioning company he found himself becoming unusually talkative.

Even more to his surprise, he had begun talking about Vesper. Thinking about it now he didn't even know if he had broached the subject or if Q had. Either way it felt like lancing a boil, letting out poison that had been festering for too long. Even just saying her name aloud after all this time, instead of "that bitch," was both painful and yet somehow healing.

"The thing is..." he mused aloud to Q. "The thing is, she wasn't even who she was. She was who she was so that she could fool me. And she was doing it for Yusef, who was who he was so that he could fool her. Lies upon lies, and for _what?"_ He spat the words bitterly. "Money. Information. Power."

He took another sip of his Scotch. The humiliation and heartbreak of Vesper's betrayal seemed oddly distant right now, with Q's warm presence beside him. Looking back, what struck Bond most was the utter waste of it all. For someone who snuffed out life on an almost daily basis, the loss of Vesper's vibrant existence still seemed like an affront.

Maybe this was the first step toward forgiveness. Remembering Vesper with simple grief for her loss and with pity for her misguided motives, instead of with blinding anger for her deception and betrayal.

Q held out his glass, and Bond poured him just a little more. Bond sighed, searching for the words to explain to Q his somewhat drunken epiphany. "No matter what mistakes she made, she was...brilliant, and beautiful, and full of life. And she died for nothing. For numbers in an account somewhere."

"You loved each other, though," Q said, his grey-green eyes serious. "Even if she was pretending at first, even if it didn't last. She wouldn't have drowned if she didn't love you, and you loved her. That's...that's got to be worth something, hasn't it? To love someone who loves you back, even if just for a few weeks?"

Bond drained the last of his glass, grimacing. "I don't know," he said. "It doesn't feel worth a bloody thing right now."

Bond poured more into both their glasses, squinting against the slight fuzzy edge to his vision. They both lapsed into silence for awhile, lost in their own thoughts.

Finally Bond felt himself growing impatient with his morose line of thought. He wanted distraction. "Tell me something about you," he said to Q.

Q's head lolled on the couch, turning to face Bond, his eyes blinking slowly. "Like what?"

Christ, there was a lot that Bond wanted to know, but Q obviously was holding back for a reason. Even hazy as he was, Bond knew he would be a complete shit to press him on any of it now, while they were both half-drunk. He cast about for something relatively innocuous to ask.

"Tell me...how you learned computers."

Q laughed bitterly, closing his eyes. "You  _would_  ask that."

Bond felt irritation flare in his gut. "It's a simple question, Q. I've bared enough of my bloody soul tonight, I'd think you'd at least answer that."

Q sighed, before taking a swig of his drink. "I learned computers in prison," he said casually.

Bond felt a sudden rage cloud his vision. Here he had told Q bloody _everything_ , and Q was brushing off the simplest question with a flippant answer? He clenched his jaw, trying to control his anger, when something about Q's tense, watchful gaze stopped him cold.

"You're serious," he rasped.

Q nodded. "Or close enough, at least. I was in a YOI, if you want to get technical. I was the youngest and smallest kid in all of Huntercombe." He raised his glass in an ironic salute to Bond. "Or at least I think so, it's not as if any of us sought out bragging rights on that point."

Huntercombe. It took Bond a moment to place the name, being more familiar with foreign prisons than domestic ones. A former WWII internment camp, Huntercombe was an adult prison now, but over a decade ago it had been one of the most notorious Youth Offenders Institutions. Bond remembered a series of scandals before the place was finally decommissioned — overcrowding, safety concerns, imprisonment of juveniles with serious mental health conditions...

Bond's alcohol-muddled mind tried to wrap itself around the thought of Q — even younger and more vulnerable than he was now — in a place like that. It was...unimaginable.

"How..." A flood of questions came to mind, and Bond was hard-pressed to pick just one. "How old were you?"

Q did that little one-shouldered shrug of his. "Sixteen when I was sentenced, twenty-two when I was released."

Six years. His whole adolescence. Bond tried to imagine it. Imprisonment in a YOI was reserved for adolescents who committed the most serious crimes or the most recalcitrant of serial youth offenders. Bond couldn't imagine Q in either of those categories.

"Why..." he began.

"Because I was a little shit," Q responded, with a bleak smile, although his eyes were focused on a distant point. "My counsel tried to get me a supervision order instead, and I obstructed her at every turn. Told everyone who would listen — including the Crown Court judge and jury — that I wasn't sorry, that I meant to do it, that it was entirely premeditated..."

"You know that's not what I mean," Bond said curtly.

"I know." Q avoided Bond's eyes. "But you only get the answer to one question tonight. You asked about computers, and that's where I learned them. I've always had a knack for languages, patterns. Coding is more or less an extension of that, and I had a caseworker who was bright enough to realize that. Huntercombe required twenty-five hours of education per week, and I soon learned that the computer laboratory was among the...safest places for someone like me to be."

" _Christ,_ Q." Bond couldn't dismiss the images — Q as an adolescent, small and pale and skinny, taking refuge in his code to escape his grim surroundings. No wonder he was so skittish about being touched. He must have been the target of every punk in that facility. Bond felt the competing and entirely futile desire to hold Q in his arms protectively and to hunt down and murder anyone who had ever laid an unwanted hand on him.

"That's why I didn't want to tell you," Q said sharply. "I didn't want that...that  _pity_  that's written all over your face. I'm stronger than you think, Bond. Even back then — I fought back with everything I had. I was small, but I was brilliant and sneaky and fucking  _determined_ , and most of them learned it was easier to let me be."

"It's not..." Bond stopped, stumbling over his words. "Goddammit, Q, I don't pity you, or think any less of you. I just...wish that hadn't happened to you. And I want to hurt everyone who hurt you. If that's the wrong reaction then I'm sorry. I'm a double-oh. My first instinct is to kill everyone who ever gave you a hard time."

Q snorted. "I do appreciate your...chivalry, misplaced as it might be." He took another contemplative sip of his drink. "It's probably not as bad as you're imagining. There was a fair amount of supervision, and we were all in single cells. There were other types of... sexual coercion, but I wasn't raped. And the beatings were mostly...posturing. Half the kids in there were like me — had never been in prison before. It was often some newly-admitted git, even more scared than I was, just trying to prove himself on what he thought would be an easy target. And then once I started hacking, I was able to leverage that for protection."

Bond suddenly thought of the glance Tanner and Mallory had exchanged when Bond had expressed doubt about Q's ability to cope with the Stockholm mission, and Mallory's careful words.  _I think you'll find that Q is more resilient than you might think._

Resilient indeed. Even now, whether for his own sake or for Bond's, Q was trying to minimize the impact of what must have been hell on earth for a young, frightened adolescent.

"It sounds like it was bad enough," Bond simply said.

Q shrugged again. "Honestly, one of the worst parts was when one little bastard figured out to take my glasses. That's what..." He stopped, taking another sip of his drink, and Bond gave him time to work out his thoughts. "I don't dream of it often, but when I do, that's what I dream. Being blind. Everything just a blur of color and noise, not being able to see where the next touch was coming from. Not being able to defend myself against it. That...defenselessness. I never want to feel that again."

Bond could understand that feeling all too well. In his situation he was usually bound, immobilized, helpless to do anything but experience the pain his captor chose to inflict on him. Once you had experienced it that feeling — that  _vulnerability_  — never really left you. Bond reacted to it with aggression and distraction, numbing it with alcohol and meaningless sex in his downtime. Q had responded differently, cutting himself off from everyone, creating walls of routine and technology to keep himself protected from the world.

"I don't know which of us is more fucked up," Bond admitted wryly.

Q snickered into his Scotch. "Call it a tie."

Bond let his eyes wander over Q. His eyes were closed now, long dark lashes stark against his pale cheeks. His body was still languid with alcohol, the faintest pink flush on his neck. Christ, Bond wanted him.

"You're safe with me," Bond found himself saying before he even realized he intended to speak. Christ, which of them was he trying to convince?

Q's eyes opened sleepily. "I know," he said in that serious way of his. "I wouldn't be here with anyone else."

His mouth quirked in the barest smile. He put his glass down on the coffee table and carefully slid the few inches until he was next to Bond on the couch, their bodies pressed together from knee to shoulder.

"This okay?" Q said drowsily.

"Yeah." The simple heat of Q's body was making Bond feel a little breathless. Slowly he lifted his arm until it was wrapped around Q's slim shoulders. "Is this?"

Q hummed a pleased response, his eyes shut, his face now pressed to Bond's shoulder. It was amazing how perfectly he fit there. Bond closed his eyes as well, resting his cheek on Q's tumultuous hair. It was just as soft and thick as he had always imagined it to be.

On some level Bond wondered what in the hell he and Q were doing, but for the most part he didn't give a damn. He was too busy marveling in the strange intimacy — the ability to be close to someone like this, taking comfort in the warmth and affection, with complete trust and without agenda. It was...surprisingly nice.

Bond let his thoughts drift. Thinking of Vesper a bit, but more often thinking of the man resting so trustingly against his chest. Such a contradiction Q was — so fragile-looking, but with such a core of steely strength underneath. There was such a vulnerability to him, and yet such ferocity as well — from his fierce protectiveness of "his operatives" to his calm and even ruthless competence in support of a mission.

Bond fell asleep to muddled dreams of Vesper and Q, poker chips and palmprint-encoded Walthers. Vesper's cold, wet hand on his cheek and Q's soft warm voice in his ear.

He woke alone on the sofa, covered with the duvet from his bed, the near-empty bottle of Scotch on the coffee table replaced with a bottle of water and two paracetamol. His head ached but his heart felt lighter than it had in ages, and he had his Quartermaster to thank for that.

* * *

[The court system for juveniles in the UK seems very complicated, depending on the offense, etc.  I relied heavily on the Wikipedia page for "Youth Justice in England and Wales," but if I got anything wrong feel free to let me know -- keeping in mind that I know the nature of Q's crime and you don't, lol, which is why I had him go to Crown Court and not Youth Court.  Also, Huntercombe is a real place, and was in fact a YOI during the years Q would have been incarcerated.  It was subsequently turned into an adult prison, and now houses almost entirely foreign nationals convicted of crimes in the UK.  Interesting.  In any case, I read some reports describing the conditions there which are just fascinating reading, and can be found [here](http://www.justice.gov.uk/publications/inspectorate-reports/hmi-prisons/prison-and-yoi/huntercombe) if anyone is interested.] 


	15. The Weapon

[Thanks again to Sekishi for the French assist!]

* * *

Bond slowly surfaced under the bridge. He kept all but his eyes underwater, still using Q's marvelously compact little oxygen rebreather. Slowly his ears cleared the surface. He heard the hollow plish plash of the river against the metal bridge supports, and further downstream the rushing of the water as the river picked up speed over the rocks.

He tread water patiently, listening for long minutes. No sound of vehicles, no sound of footsteps, no sound of voices. He slid noiselessly through the water to the riverbank, climbing onto the rocky soil. He ran a hand roughly through his short hair to dry it somewhat, before unzipping the waterproof pack at his waist and extracting a small case from it. He took out the earwig and fitted it close against his eardrum.

"007, reporting," he murmured. "Are you there Q?"

"Right here, 007." Bond couldn't help his involuntary smile at the sound of Q's voice. "Status?"

"Just surfaced. Still under the bridge. Anything on satellite view yet?"

He could hear the tip-tap of Q's fingers on the keyboard in the background. "Satellite coverage is spotty. I've rerouted one, but it'll take a few minutes. Stand by."

"Affirmative." Bond felt the tracksuit he was wearing start to dry almost instantly. Another of Q's innovations — no wonder the man hardly slept.

"How is Calais? Can you see the cliffs of Dover from where you are?" Q remarked idly. "I've always thought that sounded...scenic."

Bond chuckled. "Not from under this bridge, certainly, but I could when I was driving. It's very clear today. Or at least it was — we timed it just right, looks like the sun's about to go down any minute." The goal was for Bond to infiltrate the facility right at dusk, in that window of compromised vision between daylight and full night when the floodlights came on.

"And here we are as on a darkling plain / Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight / Where ignorant armies clash by night," Q quoted, his warm rich voice caressing each syllable.

That intimate voice in his ear was enough to send Bond's mind straying. In a different world perhaps Q would have lain in bed with Bond some sleepy morning, murmuring poetry into his ear, his posh voice rough with sleep and breathless with arousal.

Bond shook his head to dismiss the vision. "Let's hope there will be no confused alarms," he said wryly. "Nor struggle and flight for that matter. In and out, and they never knew I was here."

"Ideally, yes," Q agreed, his voice warm with humour. "But since when did your missions ever go as planned?"

Bond snorted his agreement. He spent the next few minutes checking over his gear, loading and holstering his Walther and sliding the digital lockpick into the pocket of his trousers before zipping the rebreather back into the pack.

"Satellite coming online now. No infrared, unfortunately." Q tapped a few more keys. "Looks like it's as we thought...two guards at the perimeter, possibly two or three more inside. Seems all the employees have left. Slackers."

"Not everybody finds it necessary to stay at the office until midnight," Bond chided as he climbed up the bank of the river, careful not to jostle any loose rocks. "They're French — they have wine to drink and mistresses to shag."

" _Connard de buveur de thé,"_  Q muttered darkly in Bond's ear. Bond took a moment to puzzle over the translation and chuckled. If he wasn't mistaken, Q had just called him a 'tea-drinking fucker.'

"Pot. Kettle," he said, repeating Q's phrase from a few weeks ago.

He lurked in the shadow of the bridge. It crossed the river approximately fifteen metres outside the boundary of the facility's gate. That would be the diciest part, the run across gravel and through the gate until he could seek cover among the few remaining vehicles in the courtyard.

"Guard coming around now...move on my mark. Five...four...three...two...go." The guard turned the corner as Bond moved swiftly and stealthily toward the gate. It clicked unlocked at his approach, and he slid through, letting it latch softly behind him again.

"Take cover, 007, the next one's coming around..."

Bond fell into a roll, cursing the crunch of the gravel as he came to rest underneath a truck.

"All right, head for the door again on my mark. Five...four...three...two...go..."

Bond made it to the front door. He inserted the digital lockpick into the lock, waiting impatiently. The light turned green and he ducked through the door and up against the wall on the inside.

"I'm in," he murmured to Q.

"Excellent. No cameras inside, so I'm blind in here, but I have the blueprints. Try up the stairs, the first door on your right. All we need is one computer that is networked to their server bank..."

That door yielded easily to the digital lockpick as well. It looked like a typical business office — partly-dead ferns in the corner, a calendar of exotic cars over the desk scribbled with notes — every inch the custom-motor-parts company it claimed to be.

"Laptop," Bond remarked. "Looks like it's docked with an ethernet cable."

"Lovely," Q crooned. "Let's see what my little darling can do."

Bond smirked. "Why Q, I'm blushing."

"The  _virus_ , 007," Q said acidly. There was a slight pause, and Bond could hear the smile in Q's voice as he added, " _You_  won't be my darling unless you bring me back one of the prototype weapons they are supposedly manufacturing there."

"Is that all it takes?" Bond purred, slotting the memory stick into the USB port. "I'd have thought you'd play harder to get."

"Arse," Q grumbled. The red light on the drive flickered for a moment, and then turned green.

"Your little darling is on the loose, Q," Bond said. "Make us proud."

"Beautiful," Q breathed. "All right, we have our toehold. Angela, Iqbal, start hacking. Bond, let me know when you're at the door, I'll check the position of the guards again."

"Affirmative."

Bond pocketed the memory stick. He eased out the door to the office, letting it close behind him.

He made his way back down the stairs in hushed silence, pausing at the exterior door.

"Q, I'm..."

"Arrêtez!"

_Fuck._ Bond turned his head slightly. The man was wearing a lab coat and holding a truly massive weapon, of the likes Bond had never seen before. Apparently some Frenchmen worked late after all.

"Posez votre arme sur le sol... ne tentez rien d'intelligent."

"He said, 'Put your weapon down. Don't try anything smart,'" Q translated in Bond's ear, his voice tight with tension. Bond could hear Q's quiet breathing in his ear as he weighed his options.

He turned fully toward the man, eyeing his weapon. He couldn't even tell if it had a safety. It looked like a sniper rifle but with an odd, bulbous shape where the magazine should have been. This must be one of the prototype weapons Q had mentioned, but what the hell did it do?

Well, only one way to find out. Bond slowly reached toward his weapon, pulling it from the holster with three fingers, as if disarming himself. He held it out to the side.

"Lâchez-le."

"Drop it," Q translated softly.

With a quick flick Bond flipped the Walther's grip into his hand, already moving. The man's first shot hit the door with a dull thunk as Bond ducked through it.

"First guard at your two o'clock, thirty metres." Bond could hear Q breathing rapidly, but his voice was calm as ever. Bond dropped the guard with a single shot.

"Labcoat is in pursuit at your six. Second guard coming around the corner, your seven o'clock, forty-five metres," Q relayed rapidly. Bond took cover behind one of the vehicles. Two more rounds from labcoat's weapon hit the vehicle Bond had ducked behind. Bond returned fire, but couldn't get a clear shot without exposing himself to the second guard.

"Iqbal, prioritize decryption of anything that looks like weapons design," Q was saying. A voice said something in return, and Q's voice sharpened to a razor edge. "I don't give a shit if the files are in French," he snapped. "Get a screenshot of the weapon from the satellite and run image recognition. Find the stats and send them to my screen — calibre, number of rounds, range, weaknesses..."

"007," Q's voice was entirely composed when he spoke into the mic again for Bond. "Second guard is on the move. If you fall back behind the second car you should —"

A sudden explosion startled Bond, the bright flash of it blindingly illuminating the courtyard leaving spots swimming behind his eyes. He ducked instinctively, falling back behind the next vehicle. The guard seemed equally surprised, frozen in place and gaping, and Bond managed to take him out with a headshot despite the bright colors still dancing across his vision.

"What the fuck was that?" he growled.

"Explosion, near the door. I don't know why. I didn't see labcoat throw anything.  Someone in the building must have done it."

"I don't see him."

"He's between the vehicles at your four o'clock. He seems to be holding position. I don't know why. I don't see any backup coming from the facility, and why they would blow their own door—"

The next explosion threw Bond to the ground, dazing him. He stumbled to his hands and knees, ears ringing, Walther in a death-grip.

"Q," he managed weakly.

Q's voice was sounding increasingly frantic. "I don't know, 007. The vehicle you were behind a few moments ago just...just exploded. Two detonations."

"Grenades?" Bond asked.

"Maybe, but — I still don't see anyone throwing anything. Mines set off remotely? But who would mine their own vehicle..."

"Bloody hell," Bond said. "I've lost him again."

"I'm looking...there's a lot of smoke, the satellite image is bollocks." Bond could hear Q murmuring to himself. "There's something about that blast pattern —  _oh!"_  Bond heard the epiphany in Q's voice.

"It's exploding rounds," Q stuttered out, his thoughts apparently racing faster than his words. "It's not bullets he's shooting — some sort of projectile explosive. Delayed detonation approximately..." Bond heard frantic tapping as Q apparently replayed the footage. "Thirty seconds after impact."

Q's voice turned dark and covetous. "Oh, I  _want_ ," he said, and Bond found himself completely and inappropriately aroused.

"I'll bring you a souvenir, if I can get the bastard to drop the thing. Just find him for me."

"Still looking, just stay under cover until the smoke clears a — your 5 o'clock!"

Bond wheeled around, already firing. He barely processed the dull blow to his right shoulderblade, compensating automatically as it threw him off his stance. Labcoat fell, half his throat gone, but Bond's mind was just now realizing his situation.

"Q," he said numbly. "Q, I'm hit."

* * *

Q saw the whole thing as if in slow motion. Through the grainy, smoke-obscured satellite footage the man in the labcoat suddenly appeared at Bond's back. Q's warning came too late, Bond right shoulder jerking awkardly backward as he turned, still firing.

Almost unconsciously Q started counting.

_Twenty-nine...twenty-eight..._

Labcoat fell in a bloody heap but Bond's voice was all Q could think about.

"Q," Bond said, his voice emotionless. "Q, I'm hit."

_Twenty-six...twenty-five..._

Q ignored the chill blooming in his chest. "Can you extract it?" he asked.

_Twenty-two...twenty-one..._

Q-Branch was eerily quiet. All Q could hear was Bond panting heavily, grunting with exertion as he tried to reach inside the wound with his small knife. "No. It's in the scar tissue — deep, almost at my back. I can't reach it."

"Q" Iqbal's apologetic voice barely penetrated Q's numb, cold dread. "Stats to your screen now."

Q's bloodless fingers stumbled on the keyboard, taking in whole pages at a time. Specifications, test firings...

"I'm sorry, Q." Bond's voice was flat, resigned.

_Fifteen, fourteen, think, think, THINK..._

" _Run._ Through the gate, to the bridge..."

Bond hesitated not a moment, already running as Q opened the gate with a few keystrokes, still stumbling out his explanation. "Water...get it wet. It might work. Get out as far to the middle of the bridge as you can, dive as shallow as you can." Q felt his voice start to break and he brutally clamped down on his fear. "James, I don't know how deep the river is. You'll have to chance it. I'm sorry. Jump when I say. Stay in the water, keep it wet until we find you."

_Ten...nine...eight..._

Q was calculating wildly, one second to jump over the rail, two seconds to hit the water...Bond wasn't quite to the middle of the bridge yet, but there was no time, never enough time...

_Six...five..._  "Now!  _Jump!"_ Q cried, his voice thick with the emotion he had been trying to suppress.

Bond was pure, fluid motion, veering to the rail, leaping with one foot on the edge and hurtling himself out into nothingness without a moment's hesitation. Q could see him, arms outstretched into the beginning of a dive, before he passed out of the light cast by the facility's floodlights and into darkness.

Q heard a rush of air and water and then nothing, the earwig flatlining as it got wet. Q heard a choked, keening noise that he only belatedly realized had escaped from his own throat and he covered his hand with his mouth.

He breathed in sharply through his nostrils, blinking away the dizziness and shaking that was threatening.

"Get me satellite coverage — communications, military, whatever you can scramble," he barked to his minions. "I need eyes on that river now. Send a retrieval team, stat. Cross-reference with his trackers. We'll need..."

He looked around, shaken again for a moment by the shocked faces turned toward him. Angela was outright weeping as she rerouted satellites, R's eyes shadowed with grief and concern as she looked at Q.

"He's not dead," Q barked, even knowing how irrational he sounded. "He's — he's got the rebreather. We'll need something for the extraction team...some kind of tank to keep the wound wet, and blood and plasma. Antibiotics..."

R nodded. "I'll coordinate with Medical."

"Trackers on the map now," one of the minions said quietly.

Q pulled up the map on the big monitor. Bond's tracker was moving rapidly down the river.

"Outfit a helicopter, I want it on its way within the next five minutes." Q said.

"His body'll end up in the Channel," someone commented and someone else shushed them immediately.

Q refused to turn around, watching the red dot on the map through blurry eyes as mindless, gibbering fear clawed at his chest, struggling to break free.

"He's not dead," he repeated to himself — but quietly, so quietly, so that his minions wouldn't hear the desperation in his voice. "He's not dead."

* * *

 


	16. The Bathtub

[Author's Note: Huge thanks to my new second beta, [professorfangirl (lizeckhart)](../../../../users/lizeckhart/works), who jumped on this chapter to make my story even better. And as always, thanks to the lovely [lachlanrose](../../../users/lachlanrose/pseuds/lachlanrose/works), my beta who really should be bumped up to co-author on this, given how many great ideas she's given me for it. Go read everything these wonderful women have ever written, because lord knows it's better than my stuff! :-D]

* * *

Shortly before 2 a.m. Moneypenny came for Q, finally pulling him away from all the somber, pitying faces. Two hours after his leap from the bridge Bond's tracking signal had shown him somewhere in the vast Channel, and the retrieval effort had been officially reclassified and deprioritized as a recovery effort. They weren't looking for Bond anymore, they were looking for his body.

Q had stayed another few hours, trying to distract himself, until Moneypenny had forcibly hauled him out of the Branch and into her car.

Q distantly heard Moneypenny speaking, but processed exactly nothing of what she was saying. Instead he gazed out the car window, thinking about the many times Bond had driven him home, and replaying the evening over and over in his head.

_I should have had satellite coverage on the facility all day, counting individuals as they arrived and left. I would have known an employee was still on site._

_I should have prioritized making a waterproof earwig._

_I should have known the depth of the river. Why hadn't I known that? Maybe if Bond had scrambled down the bank he still would have made it in time._

Moneypenny said something else and paused, obviously waiting for Q's response. Q took a chance and made a vague noise of agreement. From the expression on her face, he must have chosen poorly.

" _Q,"_ she said, concern for him stark in her voice, and he turned his face to the window and swallowed hard.

"I'm fine," he said to her. To himself. "I'll be fine."

He knew on some level he was replaying the past, over and over, to avoid thinking about the future. A future without Bond in it.

Moneypenny dropped him in front of the gate, watching as he used his digital lockpick to open it and only turning the car around when he was in his front door.

Q let his messenger bag thump to the floor inside the door. He thought about eating, or sleeping, or drinking the vodka he used for the occasional pasta recipe, and couldn't stomach the idea of any of it. Out of a complete lack of other ideas he toed off his shoes and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

_I should have known the depth of the river. I should have counted the employees. I should have modified the earwig. I should have changed the mission parameters, picked the pocket of one of the employees and infected their personal jump drive with my virus._

He should have done a million things differently, better. If he had, 007 —  _James_  — would still be...would still be...

He couldn't even complete the thought, his brain stalling out blankly.

Had he crushed his skull on impact with the rocky riverbed, quick and merciful? Or infinitely worse, had he broken his back — snapped his spine, drowning slowly, lungs filling with water, cursing Q with his last smothered breath...

After witnessing Vesper's death it must have been Bond's worst nightmare, drowning, and Q had sent him to that fate. It would have been more merciful to have let the explosive take his head off. But maybe it had. Maybe wetting the projectile accomplished nothing, Q's directions simply ensuring that Bond spent the last few moments of his life in agony...

The light in the bathroom caught Q's attention. He hadn't left it on, he never left it on. Had he?

He dithered briefly, wondering if he should retrieve his taser at the very least, before deciding he was being ridiculous. He could barely hold a thought in his head right now, let alone a taser.

He must have left the light on himself.

All the same he moved forward carefully, silently. A little closer and he stopped. His socks were suddenly wet. He flexed his toes, feeling the damp fabric cling unpleasantly. In the glimmer of light through the open bathroom door he could make out more drips on the hardwood.

His mind was a haze of white noise as he moved even closer. He reached out with one hand, slowly pushing the bathroom door ajar. With a deep breath he peeked around the door frame.

He had renovated the bathroom himself, almost breaking his back hauling in the antique clawfoot bathtub that sat in its center. In that bathtub, fully dressed down to his shoes, James Bond was lying. The water was a sickening brownish-pink all around him.

As Q stood frozen in shock, his heart in his throat, Bond opened his eyes. That eerie, ice-blue gaze seemed to look right into Q's soul.

The corner of Bond's mouth twitched up. "Took you long enough," he said.

* * *

Bond was lying in Q's bathtub, slowly bleeding to death, when he heard the thunk of the front door and a second thump as Q apparently dropped something in the foyer. Maybe he would live after all.

He had intended to call someone when he got here, he truly had, only Q didn't seem to have a damn telephone in the place. Stumbling and light-headed from exhaustion and blood-loss, every moment Bond's grip on the water bottle had weakened more, until finally he had filled the tub and and collapsed into it, hoping to keep the wound wet even if he passed out.

Unfortunately once Bond was in the bathtub he was fairly sure he wouldn't be able to get himself out again. So he had waited, retreating to that detached place in his mind that he went to when the situation was no longer under his control, wondering idly if Q was going to spend another three consecutive days at work and come home to find an expired secret agent in his loo. Bond felt bad about that, he really did, but maybe it would encourage Q to work more reasonable hours.

He heard some puttering around and then eventually the soft, careful approach of Q down the hallway. Silly lad, he should have left and called for backup as soon as he realized his house was compromised. Bond tried to watch the door, but found his eyes closing against his will.

He opened them again to see Q peeking around the doorframe, just one startled grey-green eye and his mop of hair visible. Bond couldn't help smiling at the sight.

"Took you long enough," he said.

Q moved fully until he was standing in the doorway, slump shouldered and uncertain. His hands fluttered, as if he didn't know what to do with them, his eyes enormous in his pale face.

"You shouldn't work so late," Bond tried again, hoping to tease Q out of what was apparently a state of complete shock.

A smile spread slowly across Q's face, rare and luminous. "Yes. Well." He cleared his throat but his voice was still raspy when he spoke again. "We lost an agent today. That's a lot of paperwork."

"Did you?" Bond replied. "Careless of you."

It was meant to be a joke, just more banter, but Christ did Bond wish the words back when Q flinched, the smile dropping abruptly from his face.

"Q," Bond began, but Q interrupted, his voice brisk and businesslike now as he dropped to his knees at Bond's side.

"How much blood have you lost?" he asked.

"Not too much," Bond lied.

Q's glance was sharp and knowing. "Stay there," he said unnecessarily.

Q stepped out of the bathroom. Bond heard him speaking on his mobile. Next came the clatter of cupboards, and Bond's eyes drifted shut again. He was actually quite comfortable, despite the blaze of pain in his shoulder. Everything felt fuzzy and a little...distant. The next thing he knew Q was at his side again, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, cutting the ragged tracksuit shirt away from Bond's chest and arm with large scissors.

"You're an idiot," Q said conversationally. "Medical should be doing this."

"It's a weapons issue, not a medical issue," Bond said. "That shoulder was buggered anyway, there's no vasculature or nerves left to damage. I just want to get the thing out without it exploding. That seems right up your alley, Quartermaster."

Q's eyes flashed up to Bond's face and then back again, but he remained silent. Bond hesitated. "But of course — it's asking a lot, if you'd rather not risk it..."

"Don't be ridiculous, 007." And there was that smile again, a quick flash this time, even as Q's eyes remained shadowed with concern. "I asked you for a souvenir and you brought me one. It's bad manners to refuse a gift."

Bond laughed, a soft huff that turned into a pained grimace.

"How on earth did you get back to England?" Q asked, draining some of the dirty water from the bathtub and adding fresh to get a clearer view of the wound. "Please don't tell me you came through the Channel Tunnel with an explosive in your body."

Bond smiled. "Got washed around a bit. Made good use of your rebreather, fortunately. Found myself in the Channel and more or less hitched onto a ferry going across. Stole a car on the other side and decided I might as well pay you a visit."

In truth, Bond had put very little thought into it at all. The desperate struggle for survival in the river had been purely instinctive, the sheer luck of a current sending his battered and exhausted body close enough to the ferry to clasp the trailing rope, letting himself be half dragged and half drowned across the rough waters in its wake. Even now, he could tell his thinking was a haze, as muddy as the bathwater. Once he had stumbled up onto land he had just wanted to get to Q, knowing that Q would take care of it.

"How did you keep it wet?"

Bond gestured vaguely in the direction of the empty water bottle on the floor. "That was floating in the Channel. Filled it up and kept it pressed to the wound. It did the job."

"You're a bloody lunatic," Q said, but his eyes were intent on Bond's face, as if memorizing it.

Then Q's face faded into greyness, his voice going distant and thin. The next thing Bond knew Q's mobile buzzed and Q stepped out of the bathroom. The screech of the wrought-iron gate pulled Bond a little closer to full awareness, as the front door creaked open. Voices murmured, and then the clack of heels and a low rumble moved toward the bathroom.

"Bloody hell," Moneypenny said, taking in the scene. "You enormous  _arse_."

"Good to see you too, Moneypenny," Bond smirked.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but clicked her way further into the bath, setting up a slim metal pole on four wheeled legs.

"Dammit, Q." Bond shot Q a betrayed look. "You called Medical?"

"Don't you dare harass the boffin," Moneypenny said sharply. "He called in a favor. This is Stefano," she said, gesturing to a dark-haired man lurking in the doorway. "My boyfriend."

"The bloke from Medical. Right."

The man seemed to be a good match for Moneypenny, taking in the situation with a comprehensive glance before silently swabbing Bond's left hand and the crook of his elbow down with antiseptic. He deftly threaded needles into the veins, draping the i.v. stand with about five different bags of liquids he took from an insulated cooler.

Moneypenny sat on the toilet, trying to look disapproving, but Bond could see the tremor of tension underneath, her eyes darting between Bond's wound and her boyfriend's hands, her attention only shifting as Q rumbled in some machinery on a dolly.

"What the bloody hell is that?" Bond asked Q as Stefano started gingerly injecting his shoulder with what appeared to be a local anaesthetic.

"Portable x-ray," Q said crisply. "Cutting edge — three dimensional, cold cathode, carbon nanotubes. Moneypenny, Dr. Ross, if you wouldn't mind stepping outside the blast radius, just in case?"

With a final sharp look at Bond, Moneypenny and her bloke from Medical stepped outside. Q carefully helped Bond lean forward, keeping his shoulder submerged.

"Sensor array," Q said, sliding a slim flexible screen behind and around Bond's right shoulderblade before adjusting the rest of the machine.

Bond felt his head start to clear a little as the intravenous fluids and alleviation of pain from the local anaesthetic had their effect. "Q...you don't have to do this. I can dig it out myself."

"Shut up, Bond." Q's eyes were bright, an emerald glint in his pale face. "You need to be still for this part."

The machine buzzed and Q pulled the sensor array from behind Bond's back. Bond allowed his eyes to close again, listening to Q tapping on a computer. When he opened his eyes again there was a rotating three-dimensional image on the screen of his shoulder, with a bright white blob nestled snugly between his clavicle and scapula.

"There's the little bugger," Q said thoughtfully, peering at the screen.

He knelt down at Bond's side again, laying out some implements on a towel next to him. "Are you ready?"

Bond nodded hazily. Now that the pain was fading his adrenaline was fading with it, making his vision go a little fuzzy around the edges. He did his best to hold still while Q dug in his shoulder with a scalpel and what looked to be needlenosed pliers, cursing low and fluently under his breath in at least three languages from time to time.

Bond gritted his teeth, blocking out the pain and focusing his thoughts on Q. He was kneeling so close that Bond could feel his breath on his neck, could smell the salty tang of his sweat in the humid bathroom. Q seemed to truly come alive at moments like this, under the pressure of an untenable situation — his hands remarkably steady and deft, his lush red lips pressed into a solemn line, his beautiful eyes practically blazing with the intensity of his single-minded concentration. He was almost terrifying in his quiet competence.

Finally Q drew back, the pliers gripping a lump of metal under the water as a slow ribbon of red unfurled from the wound. Q held a jar under the water, letting it fill, and then released the projectile. They both held their breath, watching as it settled to the bottom of the jar with a muted clink.

Q pressed a towel to Bond's shoulder. He reached down for Bond's right hand under the murky water, squeezing it for a moment.

The first touch of Q's hand to his felt almost electric, and Bond had to wonder how it was for Q. How often had touched someone, skin to skin like this? Even with Bond's wound, even with unexploded ordinance on the floor at his feet, did Q like the way Bond's body felt underneath his hands? Did Q even realize he was touching Bond like this — so naturally, so tenderly?

He wondered if he would ever know. Q's eyes carefully avoided his as he pulled Bond's hand up and pressed it to the towel. The slightest tremor shook the palm covering the back of Bond's hand now, as Q silently urged him to apply pressure to the wound. Then he opened the drain on the bathtub.

Q's hands were steady again as he carefully but unhesitatingly picked up the jar.

"Coming through," he called out. Bond heard Moneypenny and Stefano move back as Q took the projectile off elsewhere, returning in just a few moments.

"Where the hell did you put it?" Bond asked muzzily.

Q knelt beside him again. "Fireproof safe. It won't fully contain the blast, but it should be enough to keep it localized. We'll be safe. Stefano is just gathering some more things and then he'll come to stitch you up."

Q's warm touch returned, covering the back of Bond's hand again, adding surprisingly firm pressure to the wound — as always, he was stronger than he looked. Bond focused on that point of contact, the intangible connection between himself and Q suddenly starkly, physically tangible. He fought the drooping of his eyelids, and realized Q was looking as well, his wondering gaze locked on his own slim fingers where they covered Bond's tanned, scarred hand.

"Q, can I stay?" Bond found himself saying drowsily.

"In my bath?" Q replied, his voice gentle and amused.

"Just here. With you." Bond heard his own words with a feeling of distant surprise.

"Yes. You can stay," Q said softly. Bond closed his eyes as greyness closed in on him. Just before full darkness washed over him, he thought he felt Q's hand, warm and damp from the water, rest on his cheek for just a moment.

* * *

 


	17. The House

Bond was aware first of a throbbing pain, the deep and familiar thrum of full-body injury. He ruthlessly pushed himself toward further awareness, resisting the urge to fall back into unconsciousness. Before he even knew who he was he knew that pain meant danger, and he was well-practiced at forcing himself back to consciousness.

He jolted awake with a sharp inhale, his eyes opening to a blaze of light that resolved itself, strangely, into a view of a clear blue sky. Instantly the other sensations followed. Soft bed, no restraints, pain parsing itself into three main areas of sharp discomfort — shoulder, ribs, and head in addition to a general ache of bruises and strained muscles.

He turned his head and his eyes found Q, looking more ethereal than ever in the blaze of sunlight. Bond blinked, bringing him into sharper focus as Q straightened in his chair. The sun-limned silhouette resolved itself into a more earthly image. Q had dark purple smudges underneath each eye, his hair was standing up in all directions, and his button-down shirt was spattered with blood, still rolled up to his elbows.

"You look like death warmed over," Bond croaked.

Q barked a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head wearily. "Pot. Kettle," he said.

He magicked a glass of water and a drinking straw from somewhere, his left hand supporting Bond's head as he took a grateful sip. His throat felt raw and torn, and he suddenly remembered his lungs filling with a rush of murky water.

He jerked back, startled, and Q immediately drew his hand away. Bond swallowed, resisting the urge to cough up water that wasn't really there.

"Sorry," he muttered.

He blinked a few more times, taking further stock of his situation. The sky above was in fact a large skylight, flooding the bedroom with natural light despite the lack of windows. The bed itself was surprisingly luxurious — the spacious mattress just the right combination of plush and firm, the sheets an obviously indulgent thread-count and the duvet light and fluffy.

"Is this...still your house?" Bond asked, his voice raspy.

"Of course," Q said. He was tending to Bond with well-practiced motions — taking his temperature with an ear thermometer, checking under the bandage on his shoulder, squinting at his pupils, gently touching his hand and forearm where the intravenous lines had been placed.

"I managed to talk Dr. Ross out of involuntarily admitting you to Medical by promising I'd watch over you. In addition to your obvious gunshot wound, you fractured two ribs on your right side, and likely have a concussion. You also look like you've been beaten with sticks, but I expect that was your journey over the rocky riverbed. You are probably out of danger by now for secondary drowning or catastrophic effects of the concussion, but you have a slight fever and remain at risk for infection or pneumonia given your extended bath in the Channel."

"I didn't realize you had such extensive medical knowledge," Bond remarked wryly.

"Dr. Ross was very informative." Q smiled suddenly, a quick flash that changed his whole face, chasing away the fatigue and brightening his eyes to a translucent green. "Plus I have several relevant tabs from the Mayo Clinic's website open on my tablet."

Even his slight chuckle hurt, but Bond couldn't suppress it. "Of course you do." He hazarded a deep breath. Not too bad. He began to push himself to sitting.

"Slowly," Q warned. "And no trying to stand until you've eaten something. It took all three of us to get you into that bed, I don't fancy my chances of getting you back there on my own."

Bond smirked, despite the stabbing pain he felt as he awkwardly pushed himself the rest of the way to sitting with his left arm. "I'm sure you'd have absolutely no trouble getting me into your bed, Q."

Q's cheekbones pinkened instantly, but his voice was light and affectionate as he offered the water back to Bond, pressing the glass into his hands this time. "You're incorrigible."

He stood up, hands quick and nervous in that way he got when he was flustered. "Tea and buttered toast to start, before you take the next dose of painkillers. If that goes down well we can try eggs a little later."

He was off before Bond had a chance to respond. Bond sighed, setting the water aside and letting himself settle down into the bed again. It truly was amazingly comfortable. He would never have guessed that Q was such a...sensualist. The bed smelled like Q — warm, and a bit spicy. Lemongrass and bergamot, with the slightest hint of gun oil. It was inexpressibly comforting.

Q's house was nothing like he would have expected. If he had been asked to guess, he would have expected Q to live like a Uni student — IKEA furniture and a lumpy futon, perhaps a jumble of computer equipment on every surface. The man was so dismissive of his own personal comfort at work that Bond had more or less assumed his home life was equally austere.

Not to mention the exterior of the building was so plain — a squat brick box behind the heavy wrought-iron gate. Now Bond could see that the unattractive exterior completely belied the beautiful interior. The house was open and airy. From the bedroom Bond could see into the main living space, and it seemed equally bright. Bond suspected there were skylights in every room. Ingenious, and so very like Q to have devised such a creative solution for the windowless structure.

In addition to the lush bed, the rest of what Bond could see of the house was furnished thoughtfully and warmly. The overall impression was simple and light, and yet highly tactile, texture layered upon texture. Clean-lined furniture in rich grained wood was set against hand-plastered walls and grasscloth wallpaper, thick rugs in subtle but ornate patterns covered thick handscraped hardwood planks and polished-stone tiles, and warm, rich color was everywhere. Deep grey and chalk blue, verdant green and even garnet-red.

It was almost as if, unable to touch people, Q had poured his innately sensual nature into the things around him — filling his sanctuary with the texture and warmth he was missing from human contact.

Q interrupted his musings, returning with a large plate heaped with buttered toast and two steaming mugs of tea. Bond levered himself upright again. Q carefully sat on the other side of the bed, cross-legged, setting the plate of toast between them. He handed Bond his tea and then doled out six pills from various bottles at his bedside. Bond swallowed the medication without question.

The tea was sweet and strong and soothing to his sore throat. The two of them sat for awhile, crunching toast in silence. Q still seemed flustered, alternating between wide-eyed gazes at Bond's scarred chest and avoiding looking at him altogether.

After the third covert perusal Bond finally broke. "Do you...am I making you uncomfortable? I could borrow a robe, if you have one."

"No." Q's voice was a little overloud, and seemed to startle even himself. He blinked a few times. "I mean, not at all. Although if you're cold, you're certainly welcome...I think I have something around...but don't feel obligated on my account, I mean..."

By the end of this ramble Bond was laughing outright, hand pressed to his fractured ribs. Q stared daggers at him for a moment before his lip twitched and he began chuckling himself.

"Dammit, Bond!" Q took a sip of his tea, fortifying himself. "I've never had anyone in my house, let alone in my... _bed_ ," he admitted, his cheeks going even pinker on that final loaded word. "I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with you!" he finished in a rush.

Bond smirked, letting his eyes wander over Q appreciatively. "Unfortunately tea and toast is probably the most that I am up for right now," he purred. "Later, perhaps..."

As Bond had hoped, the sheer outrageousness of his flirting seemed to put Q more at ease.

"You're an arse," he said rolling his eyes. "But seriously, I could bring you a book, or there's a telly in the other room if you feel up to walking in a bit, or I have a chessboard somewhere about..."

"You don't have to entertain me, Q." Bond was finding himself immensely amused by this side of Q, apparently thrown for a complete loop by having company for the first time. "Just do whatever you'd normally do. I'm probably going to lie here feeling knackered for awhile, and then take a shower when I feel steady enough. And then I can go back to my own flat."

Bond really didn't want to say it, but Q was obviously a private man, and Bond had promised himself not to overstep again. He had already invaded Q's sanctuary without asking.

"You're not allowed," Q told Bond earnestly. "I promised Dr. Ross I'd keep an eye on you for at least a few days." Q seemed to hesitate. "Unless...if you're uncomfortable here I could..."

"No," Bond interrupted. "I'd like to stay." It sounded a little too forceful. "If you'll have me," he added awkwardly.

"Yes. Good. Stay." Q's smile spread across his face like a sunrise, slow and wide. "I'd like that."

Bond smiled in return and Q flushed again. "Well," he said briskly, gathering up the empty teacups and take away the plate full of crumbs. "That's sorted, then."

He continued to bustle around, finding Bond a robe and some pajama bottoms, assuring him that Moneypenny would be stopping by with the bag he kept packed in his locker at MI6, and in a general sense just  _hovering_  until Bond finally shooed him away.

In truth, Bond would rather not have Q witness the absolutely pathetic picture he made, creaking unsteadily to his feet and shuffling to the bathroom like an aged crone. By the time he had relieved himself he was weak and dizzy again, hobbling back to the bed gratefully.

He fell into an uncomfortable doze, haunted by feverish dreams of rough waters, stormy grey-green eyes, and an urgent struggle to touch something that remained always just out of his reach.

He opened his eyes suddenly to Q pressing a cool washcloth to his head, his soft voice calling Bond's name. Instinctively Bond's hand lashed out, grasping Q's wrist. Q froze, his grey-green eyes wide, and equally quickly Bond released him.

"Oh, bloody  _hell_ ," he mumbled through dry, cracked lips, pushing himself up to sitting. "I'm sorry, Q."

"That's all right," Q said, something a little off in his voice.

"I know that I promised you and I meant it..."

"You don't understand, Bond." Q had been looking at his wrist, but his eyes were suddenly back on Bond, bright with a strange intensity. "I meant...that that was actually _all right_."

Bond looked at Q, the words heavy in the air between them. Q hesitated, and then slowly held his arm out to Bond, wrist up.

"Do it again," he said, part command and part plea.

Bond was momentarily mesmerized by the pale stretch of Q's wrist and hand...so open, so vulnerable. He reached out, slowly enough that Q could have time to change his mind, and brushed the tips of his three middle fingers over Q's inner wrist. The bones there were fragile, the pulse beating frantically under Bond's fingertips, but Q's hand stayed steady as Bond wrapped the warmth of his palm more fully around his wrist.

"Still okay?" Bond asked.

"Yes," Q said, but his voice was flat, unreadable. Bond wasn't sure what to make of that. If Q was happy that Bond could touch him, he certainly didn't sound it. All the same, Q's eyes drifted closed and Bond couldn't help rubbing his thumb in a slow gentle circle, feeling the tender skin and strong tendons underneath. Q shivered, his expression taut — but with fear, or arousal, or both? Bond was typically exceptional at judging peoples' reactions, and yet Q remained a mystery.

Q opened his eyes again and the moment was broken. Bond released Q's wrist and Q stood up hurriedly, messing about with the cluster of medicine bottles on the bedside cabinet.

"Your fever is down, but still not at normal temperatures," Q said, his voice too carefully casual. "You've slept through lunch, but dinner should be ready in about twenty minutes. I made a lamb stew, since I know you like lamb. Moneypenny dropped off your things." He gestured to the small suitcase on a nearby chair.

Bond tried to catch Q's gaze but Q seemed to be studiously avoiding eye contact. Bond gave up with a small sigh. "Thank you, Q," he said instead.

"Yes. Well." Q had a collection of pills now in the palm of his hand and he looked at them somewhat blankly. Bond held out his hand, palm up. Q's eyes darted away again and he set the pills on the nightstand instead, a little white heap of rejection.

"I'll call you for dinner," Q said, but he was already disappearing into the next room. Q fled — his back stiff, his movements uncharacteristically jerky — while Bond, fever-weak and muzzy-headed, could only watch him go.

* * *

 


	18. The Dinner

[Huge thanks to [stephrc79](../../../users/stephrc79/pseuds/stephrc79) who gave this chapter a read!  Any lingering grammatical or word usage issues are entirely due to my own stubbornness.  ;-)]

* * *

Bond hauled himself up from Q's bed, every sore muscle screaming in protest, and hobbled toward his suitcase. He snagged his bag of toiletries and made his way to the en suite, still puzzling over Q's reaction.

He peeled the dirty bandage from his shoulder wound and threw it in the bin, grimacing at his battered reflection. He turned the shower up as hot as he thought he could stand, brushing his teeth as he waited for it to heat up. He stepped in, grateful to feel the hot water pound into his aching body despite the stinging of his scrapes and wounds.

Bond perfunctorily scrubbed himself, immediately feeling better as he washed the fever-sweat from his body. He had already used Q's toothpaste and now he unabashedly used Q's lemongrass shampoo, lifting his face to the spray of the shower and letting the trickles of water clear his fuzzy head.

The humid mist settled around Bond, intensifying the scent of Q in the air. Bond breathed it in, his mind suddenly inundated with images of Q — the salty tang of Q's skin as he knelt beside Bond in quiet concentration, the feel of Q's slender wrist underneath Bond's fingertips, the gentle touch of Q's hand on Bond's cheek.

There was something so intimate about being here, in such close quarters to Q. Bond's lovers were typically casual encounters or marks. He would take them to a hotel, or at the most follow them to their place for a quick shag and an equally quick departure. When was the last time he had lounged around in sheets that smelled of someone else, or showered surrounded by the scent of someone else's body?

Bond was half-hard already, his hand drifting down to palm his cock before he even realized what he was doing. He should stop, he told himself. Turn the water cold and get dressed.  _But_ , his traitorous mind argued,  _perhaps it might help to take the edge off just a bit, before spending the rest of the evening with Q._  It was hard enough keeping his promise not to touch Q before. Now that he knew Q did not mind his touch, that he might even welcome it...

_Do it again,_  Q had said. Bond unconsciously licked his lips, tasting the toothpaste and wondering if Q's clever pink tongue would taste the same. Finally, he gave up, resting his head against the cool tiles and letting the images flood his mind.  _I have a perfectly functioning libido,_ Q had said. Did Q ever stand here like this — his alabaster skin flushed with the heat of the water, thinking lustful thoughts? Would he run those elegant hands over his own body, imagining the touch of another?

Bond envisioned Q tracing his fingertips along that long pale throat, the narrow width of his chest, the tender expanse of his belly. He imagined Q's hand sliding down to tease at first, fondling leisurely, and then stroking in earnest, his deft hands growing fumbling with arousal, his breath gasping in the steamy air.

Did Q bite his lip, stifling the sounds of of his arousal? Or did he let himself go, breathy sighs and rough groans turning into harsh little pants of entreaty? Bond's hand moved faster, working himself ruthlessly towards orgasm, imagining himself now — his larger body entwined with Q's slender form under the spray of the water. He would bite the sounds of pleasure from those red lips, suck pink marks of ownership into that flushed skin, swallow down Q's cock and watch those beautiful eyes haze with lust as they watched him.

Did Q think these same thoughts, touching himself in his lonely fortress? Did he close his eyes and imagine the trickling water was Bond's hands on his body, envision the feel of Bond's mouth around his cock as he stroked himself to completion? Did he shudder and shake, here in the shower, biting back Bond's name on his lips as he came?

The thought of it was enough to send Bond over, the pleasure gathering at the base of his spine and cresting as he came hard and fast, biting into the heel of his other hand to stifle the sounds of his release. His head spun for a moment as he worked himself through the jolts of pleasure and twitching aftershocks. He breathed in the steamy air, legs wobbly, for a few moments before turning the tap to cold, jolting himself back into crystalline clarity.

* * *

He stood in front of the mirror, shaving with his straight razor, remorse creeping in as he scraped the stubble from his weathered face. Q had saved Bond's life, had invited him into his home, and in exchange Bond was lusting after him like a hormonal teenager. It was ridiculous.

Bond heard a gentle knock at the door.

"Bond? Dinner is ready."

Bond opened the door a few inches, shaving lather on half his face. "I'm almost done in here, I'll be out in a few minutes."

He smothered his smile as Q's eyes darted over his bare torso, down to the edge of the towel wrapped around his waist, before settling on his shoulder wound.

"Do you need help re-bandaging that?"

Bond imagined Q stepping into the steamy bathroom, standing close to him, his gentle hands on Bond's bare skin as he replaced the bandage.

"I think I can handle it," he said.

* * *

"You have hidden depths," Bond commented. "I didn't know you ate, let alone  _cooked_."

"I have a high metabolism," Q said indignantly. "But you're right, I don't have the opportunity to cook often, but I try to make the effort at least once a week. It's just chemistry, after all."

Bond took another bite of the lamb stew. The flavors were rich and subtle — tomato and onion, pistachio and even cinnamon. The accompanying flatbread was both chewy and crisp, seasoned with a hint of rosemary. Bond mentally added an appreciation of good food to his list of Q's sensualist tendencies.

"It's wonderful," he said sincerely, watching with amusement as the tips of Q's ears turned pink with the compliment.

"This recipe was my grand-mère's," Q said.

Q seemed more at ease now. He had apologized somewhat self-consciously for the lack of a dining table but they were more than comfortable eating at the wide coffee table, Bond on the sofa and Q cross-legged on the floor.

"That's right, you said she was Lebanese."

Q nodded. "My grandfather was British, but I never knew him. He was a minor official in the British Embassy in Beirut, after independence but before the Civil War. He met grand-mère there, but they were living here when my mother was born."

"And you said that you lived with your grandmother off and on?"

Q nodded. The moment of hesitation would likely not have been apparent to anyone else, but Bond saw it clearly. There were obviously still parts of his past that Q felt uncomfortable sharing.

"I was an accidental pregnancy," Q admitted. "My mother was still in Sixth Form at the time. It was...a big scandal apparently. My grandparents weren't rich — quite the opposite — but my mother managed to get into Roedean on scholarship."

Bond's eyebrows raised. Roedean was perhaps the poshest public school for girls in all of Great Britain.

Q nodded, his mouth twisting wryly. "I don't believe they were too nice to her there. She was one of only three local girls on scholarship in the whole school. She tried to talk like them, and dress like them, but I don't think she was ever truly accepted. Then she met a posh boy, and — I suppose she was vulnerable."

"Your father?"

"Yes." Q shrugged. "Any soap opera should have told her how that would go," he said bitterly. "She asked him to run away with her; he accused her of entrapping him and offered to pay for the abortion. His family got involved, and agreed to pay for my education on the condition that my mother never contact any of them again."

Q's eyes were distant now, his voice meditative. "I don't think she ever really recovered from having her heart broken. She always did have a weakness for sweet-talking men. A family failing, I suppose."

Bond felt a jolt of awareness, his pulse suddenly kicking into a higher gear. "Is it?"

Q looked up, startled, a slow flush creeping up his neck as if he had just now realized what he had said. His grey-green eyes widened but remained locked on Bond's, as if trapped there. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "I suppose it is."

"You let me touch you," Bond said, the words leaving his mouth without forethought.

"Yes." Q finally tore his eyes free, looking down at his forearm as if he could still see the imprint of Bond's palm there.

Bond could still backpedal. Could make a joke, or a sarcastic comment. "Let me touch you again," he said instead.

Q's lips parted in surprise. His pulse jumped in his neck, but he said nothing.

Bond pushed the coffee table back with his foot, slowly scraping it across the thick rug. Equally slowly he slid to the floor beside Q, ignoring the stabbing complaint from his fractured ribs.

The air seemed charged and heavy between them. Q was breathing fast, his eyes wide behind his glasses, his body unnaturally still.

"Just. Let me..." Bond reached out, pausing with his hand the barest inch away from Q's cheek. "Q?" he asked. He wanted to —  _god_  he wanted to — but he was damned if he would do it until Q said.

Q nodded once, tightly. Bond's breath sighed out in relief as he moved that last inch, feeling the silken skin and scratch of stubble against his palm, the curve of Q's cheekbone fitting into his hand as if it were made for it.

Q watched Bond intently, his expression wary. Bond traced his fingers down, sliding his hand to cup the nape of Q's neck before delving into that riot of hair. Q let out a soft, shuddering breath and closed his eyes, leaning into Bond's touch.

Bond carded his hand through Q's hair soothingly. He traced his fingers down again, skimming under Q's ear, feeling his pulse thrumming hard against the pad of his thumb. He gentled Q with his hands, reeling him in slowly, leaning their bodies together until Q was resting with his cheek against Bond's shoulder.

Q's body was still tense, his breath coming in fast pants against Bond's shoulder, even as he seemed to nuzzle in closer. Bond wrapped an arm around his shoulders, resting his chin against Q's hair.

"Just this," he said, his voice a near-whisper. "I don't even know what I'm asking for, but this...this is enough for now."

He felt Q's body ease, relaxing into the curve of his chest. "I don't know what else I can give," Q said, just as softly.

Bond took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying the closeness. "We start here."

They sat in silence for several minutes, Bond gently touching Q's face, his neck, his wrist, feeling Q grow accustomed to his touch. Finally Bond laughed softly. "I'm too old to sit on the floor. Come sit on the couch with me."

He smiled down at Q. "Don't think I didn't notice that Dalek on your bookshelf. There must be some horrible sci-fi show you're just dying to make me watch on the telly."

Q's smile was intoxicating, warm and relaxed. "Have you ever seen Battlestar Galactica?"

Bond eased himself up onto the couch. "No. Does it have robots?"

Q followed Bond up on to the couch, curling back into his body almost naturally. It seemed almost like he had no moderation, sliding from completely aloof to incredibly tactile in one step. Not that Bond was complaining, as he pulled Q in even closer to his left side.

"Better than robots. Cylons. And I have the box set."

Bond snickered. "Of course you do."

* * *

Bond woke up from his doze, not sure how long he had been asleep. He felt Q's fingers in his hair, stroking gently. Bond must have tipped over at some point; his head was pillowed on Q's thigh. The telly was still on but Q had retrieved his laptop and had it balanced on the arm of the sofa.

"Q?" Bond said in confusion, his voice sleep-slurred. Q's hand paused for a moment, still tangled in Bond's close-cropped hair.

"Is this all right?" Q asked hesitantly.

"Yeah," Bond managed. He relaxed back, trying not to nuzzle into Q's leg. He should get up, he really should. In a moment, however, Q resumed the gentle touch, and it was so much easier just to stay where he was, basking in the simple affection.

_This_ , he thought as he slid back into sleep.  _Just this._

* * *

 


	19. The Discussion

Bond started in on the dinner dishes, smiling to himself at the thought of what anyone at MI6 would say if they saw him like this. James Bond, domesticated, and not minding it a bit.

Bond had been at Q's house for four days now. He had finished his course of antibiotics that morning, and after a great deal of persuasion Q had actually unbent enough to allow a bottle of wine with dinner. Three-quarters of a bottle in and Bond was in ridiculously good spirits, his mind wandering aimlessly as he set about his task.

In such a short time Q and Bond had already established more or less of a routine. Breakfast together in the morning and dinner together in the evening, Q cooking while Bond did the washing up. In between Q worked from home in his high-tech study while Bond puttered around watching telly, easing gently into what exercise he could manage, or tinkering in Q's frankly alarmingly well-equipped workshop.

Bond smirked. Now that the secret was out — Q was a closet gearhead — Bond was almost certain he could convince him to modify another Aston Martin for him. Q still even had the auto lift in place from when the house had been a motorworks.

In the meantime, Bond had been drooling over the little Triumph T595 motorbike Q had parked in the corner of his garage workshop. Q had told Bond with no little pride that it would go from a standing start to 200 kph in 10.5 seconds, and that was  _before_  Q's modifications. He wondered if Q would ever feel comfortable enough with touch to ride with Bond. Bond imagined Q behind him, arms tight around his waist, long legs pressed to the length of Bond's thighs. How Q would lean into the curves with him, the engine growling between their legs.

Even a week ago, Bond would have thought it to be an impossibility. Now, however...

Bond couldn't say for certain exactly what he and Q were doing. To be honest, he had been steadfastly refusing to think about exactly what he and Q were doing. This exchange of touches they had initiated seemed as novel to Bond as it was to Q.

Bond was a very sexual person — he had been even before the job required it. Touching came naturally, but always as a prelude to something. A testing of the waters. The start of a seduction, with both parties knowing exactly where it would end. Using his body, his voice, his eyes, in deliberate and calculated ways — first to pull someone just for sex, and then later as another weapon in his arsenal, another means to an end. In his off-time he fucked for physical release — to occupy his mind, to relieve stress after a mission, to remind himself that he was still alive despite the odds.

The type of touching he was doing with Q was completely different. Gentle. Affectionate. Touching just for the simple pleasure of it, rather than as a prelude to sexual gratification. The way Q sleepily pressed a cup of coffee into Bond's hands in the morning, before the Quartermaster's coordination had fully kicked in. The way Bond reached out, ruffling Q's hair when he said something amusing. The curve of Q's spine as he leaned into Bond's body on the sofa, watching telly.

Together they had discovered that it was much easier for Q to touch than to be touched, and he still startled at times. If Q's back was turned or if he was engrossed in a task Bond had learned to speak aloud, reminding Q that he was there before touching him. Despite how cuddly Q was in general, if he felt crowded he would wriggle free immediately, tense and jumpy for the next few hours before finding his way back to Bond. Bond had learned not to apologize and Q had learned not to explain. They both simply waited it out and then started again.

As a result, each touch of their fingers to skin, each press of their bodies together seemed significant and charged. Affectionate but just shy of openly erotic. Sensual, but somehow just short of overtly sexual. Now that Bond thought of it, the most accurate term would be... _romantic_.

Was Bond actually romancing his Quartermaster? The idea seemed ludicrous, and yet...

Bond realized that the tapping on the computer had stopped. He heard Q's soft footsteps behind him and couldn't help smiling as Q lay his palms flat against Bond's waist, resting his forehead between Bond's shoulder blades.

"You've been washing one pot for ten minutes," Q observed. "It wasn't that dirty, was it?"

Bond hummed noncommittally, putting the pot in the drainer and drying his hands on the dishtowel. He put his hands over Q's and squeezed.

Q stepped back, leaning against the counter. "Deep thoughts?" he asked.

Bond shrugged, a little uncomfortable with where his train of thought had been headed. "More wine?" he suggested.

"Alcohol is your solution to everything," Q laughed, but followed Bond into the living room all the same, accepting the refilled glass Bond pressed into his hand. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" he asked with a lift of his eyebrow.

Bond looked Q over. He was slouched languidly on the sofa, his eyes heavy-lidded, a slight flush to his cheeks from the small amount wine he had already had. He looked delicious.

"I wouldn't put it past myself," Bond said wryly.

Bond lifted Q's laptop, making room for himself on the sofa, holding it out of reach as Q made a frantic grab for it.

"Worried I'll find your porn?" he teased.

Q rolled his eyes. "I'm a professional hacker, Bond.  _Silva_  couldn't find the porn on my computer." His mouth quirked, a mischievous glint entering his eyes. "Besides, the best stuff is on the bookshelves."

"Oh really?" Bond was up in moments, making his way to the two large built-in bookshelves flanking Q's flatscreen television.

"Honestly, Bond!" Q's voice was still amused, but when Bond cast a glance at him he was blushing, his nose buried in his wine glass.

Bond surveyed the intimidating bookcases. Each one was at least six feet wide, stretching to the high ceiling, and packed with books. "I think I may need a hint."

Q took a hearty gulp of wine. "French is a much more...evocative language."

Bond smiled wolfishly. "I've been meaning to brush up on my French."

The lefthand bookshelf was all English-language. The righthand bookshelf was a mix of mostly French and Arabic, with a few other languages thrown in. Bond started pulling titles from the shelves, paging through at random and then putting them back.

Finally he reached one that raised his eyebrow. "Erotic poetry?"

Q's eyes were bright, his smile somehow both wicked and abashed. "I have a vivid imagination."

"Do tell." Bond flipped through a few pages. "I need to improve my vocabulary," he grumbled.

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to offer you private lessons?"

_Christ_. A jolt of arousal speeded Bond's pulse and made his mouth run dry. His brain stalled out momentarily at the image of Q in bed — his lithe body twisting under Bond's, that decadent voice murmuring erotic French words into Bond's ear. Bond must still be recovering from the blood loss, because he could have sworn his knees weakened there for a moment.

Hoping that keeping his back turned hid his reaction, Bond knelt down, looking at the bigger books on the bottom shelf.

"Aha!" He pulled a heavy coffee table-sized book out. "Dirty photographs. No translation required."

"They're...artistic!" Q protested weakly, his cheeks quite adorably pink now.

Bond brought the book back to the sofa, settling in to flip through the pages. The photographs actually were very artistic. Some were richly colored but most were black and white, studies in light and shadow. Nothing so crude as a full-frontal nude, but rather each shot seemed like a celebration of male beauty. Several were extreme close-ups, the camera seeming to linger lovingly on the graceful sweep of a shoulder blade, the curve of a buttock, the tender valley between jaw and neck. Others were portraits, a single nude man or the occasional couple in a close embrace.

Bond quirked an eyebrow at Q mischievously. "Let's see who your favorite is, then." He balanced the book spine-down in one palm and loosened his grip on the covers, letting the book naturally fall open to the most frequently-viewed page.

"Damn you and your...secret spy tricks!" Q grumbled good-naturedly.

"Now...which one is it?" Bond mused aloud. Both portraits were intensely erotic and yet somehow...almost tender. One was a fair-haired man in a bathtub, his arm and shoulder draped over the edge, a cigarette dangling carelessly between his fingers. His head was thrown back, his face in profile as he blew a stream of smoke into the air. A droplet of water trickled down the elongated line of his throat, over the jut of his adam's apple.

"It would be cheating to tell...you have to guess."

Bond examined both pages carefully. "This one," he said with certainty. He pointed to the portrait on the opposite page. The man was dark-haired, not quite as slender as Q but still long and lithe. His knees were folded under him and he was draped over them, the curve of his spine breathtaking. His arms were above his head, emphasizing the graceful sweep of his body, obscuring his face from the camera.

"So...this is your type? Tall and dark?" Bond asked, strangely displeased by the thought.

Q shook his head. "It's nothing about the physical type. It's just — the way he is —" Q seemed to censor whatever else he was going to say. He shrugged, taking another gulp of wine.

Almost unconsciously Bond ran his fingertip over the picture, tracing the supple arch of the man's spine with his callused fingertip. Beside him Q made a small, shocked noise.

"He's waiting," Bond said, his voice low and soft as he considered the picture again. "He's not alone, not like the man in the bathtub. He knows someone else is there, watching him, and he's...anticipating. Waiting for that first touch."

Q's eyes were almost hazel, darkened by his response to Bond's words. His pink tongue flickered out, licking at his lips nervously.

"Which do you imagine?" Bond asked, his voice growing husky with the thought of it. "In that...vivid imagination of yours. Are you the man watching him, or are you  _him_...the one waiting to be touched?"

Q swallowed. The moment spun out, and just when Bond thought that Q wouldn't answer he finally spoke. "Him," he said, his voice rough and uneven. "Waiting to be touched. He's..." Q inhaled sharply, as if he had forgotten to breathe until now. "He's not even looking. It's all his back, so vulnerable. He — "

Q seemed to lose his nerve, suddenly looking away from Bond. "There's trust there." Q's mouth twisted bitterly, and Bond could almost feel the wall going up between them. "You always want what you can't have. Isn't that what they say?"

Bond felt unfocused anger flare low in his belly. "Who says that you can't have that?"

Q jumped to his feet, his movements edgy. He moved restlessly to the bookshelf, straightening up some of the books Bond had displaced. Bond saw his narrow chest swell as he took in a deep breath and then released it slowly.

"I have to go in tomorrow," Q said, still staring at the neat rows of books.

"Pardon?" Bond blinked at the abrupt change in subject.

Q kept his back to Bond. His voice was cool and crisp now, all the husky warmth gone. "You are no longer on the verge of death, and so my dispensation to work from home is at an end. And you have to report in to Medical tomorrow as well, even Dr. Ross and I together can't fend them off any longer."

"I see." Bond did, in fact see. To tell the truth he had been stubbornly refusing to think beyond the present, determined to enjoy this interlude with Q for whatever it was. Now, it seemed, the outside world could no longer be held at bay.

So, tomorrow then, Bond would report to HQ and resume his usual post-injury routine. Medical would no doubt start him on a more intensive physiotherapy program, and in the evenings he would return to that soulless, empty flat of his. His mind revolted at the very thought of it, and yet what was the alternative?

Bond put his own wineglass down, coming to stand behind Q, staying a pace away so as not to crowd him. He studied Q's stiff back, the restless movements of those clever hands as they touched the spines of the books.

" _I_  could cook for a change," he found himself saying. "If you trust me with your kitchen that is."

Q's head whipped around, his eyes wide with surprise before he schooled his features into a more composed expression. "Pardon?"

Bond stepped closer. "I could make us dinner tomorrow." His mouth quirked. "To celebrate me surviving whatever reprimands M has in store."

Q turned as well, leaning back against the bookcase. "All this time — you can cook and you never said? Lazy bastard." His smile started slowly, spreading across his face and lighting his eyes in that way that made him look achingly young and beautiful.

Bond couldn't help reaching out, his thumb caressing that little half-dimple that only showed when Q, honestly, genuinely smiled. "After that is the week-end..."

Q's smile faltered for a moment and Bond's hand dropped to his side. "I didn't mean to — "

"No," Q said emphatically, reaching out for Bond's hand. "I want you here. That would be...lovely."

The sudden tightness in Bond's chest eased. "I'm not going to invade your home indefinitely, Q, I just..."

"Stay as long as you like." Q's eyes were bright behind his glasses, his voice painfully earnest. "I like having you here."

Bond smiled. "Good. Your sofa is very comfortable."

Q smirked. "And your flat is depressing beyond belief. Honestly, Bond,  _Huntercombe_  had more warmth and personality than your place. After five minutes there even  _I_  wanted to drink myself into oblivion."

Bond chuckled. It was a measure of Q's comfort with him, he thought warmly, that he could joke about Huntercombe. He had even joked about Silva earlier. They may not know exactly where this was going, but it was undeniable how much had changed between them since that first tense evening in Q-Branch when he had inadvertently touched Q.

"Smartarse," Bond said. "But you're not wrong. They sold everything in my flat when I was presumed dead. It didn't seem worth the effort, somehow, to rebuild. I'm hardly ever there."

He was trying to make a joke of it but Q seemed chastened, his eyes serious now. "You shouldn't let that happen, Bond. Everyone needs a place where they belong."

The poignancy of Q's words struck Bond anew. After a life that seemed fairly hellish, Q had created this place for himself, a place where he finally belonged, and now he was giving Bond an open invitation to it as well. "And this is yours," Bond replied soberly. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

"Well...here and Q-Branch. It took me a while to acknowledge it, but that's another place I belong."

Bond nodded. Q seemed truly alive in Q branch. The same way...

"In the field," Bond admitted. "That's where I belong. Where I come alive." He realized he still held Q's hand, looking down at their entwined fingers. "Where I'll die," he finished thoughtfully. Q flinched and only then did Bond realise that he had said it aloud. To him it was the simple truth, but when he looked up Q seemed — wounded, almost, before he composed his features into calm detachment.

"Not if I can help it," Q said firmly, stepping to the side, away from Bond, moving to gather up the wineglasses.

"Q, I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

"Don't worry about it, Bond." Q was busying himself in the kitchen, quite pointedly avoiding Bond's gaze. "Get some rest. Can't have Medical coming after me if you look tired tomorrow. As it is they'll probably give me hell for letting you sleep on the sofa with fractured ribs. I don't think they realise how insistent a crotchety double-oh can be."

Christ. Bond had screwed up again. No surprise there.

"Trust me, they know," he said wryly. Double-ohs were notoriously bad patients, just as they were notoriously pants at relationships. Bond was clearly both.

Q set the wineglasses on a dishtowel to dry as Bond pulled the pillow and blanket he had been using from a storage ottoman, tossing it on the sofa.

Q paused at the door to his bedroom. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Q. Sleep well."

Bond lay on the sofa, listening to the little domestic sounds of Q changing, washing his face, brushing his teeth. Intimate, personal sounds. He and Q had become so close over the past few days, and yet it still felt temporary, fleeting. Every time the tension seemed to build between them one or the other of them would back off.

_You always want what you can't have,_  Q had said.

Bond lay on Q's sofa, listening to the sounds of Q just on the other side of a closed door and  _wanting_.

* * *

 


	20. The Nightmare

* * *

Bond returned from his run, smiling as he pulled the new palmprint-encoded digital lockpick from his pack. Q had presented him with it within two hours of their return to HQ, apparently (and quite accurately) doubting Bond's ability to calculate the shifting algorithm required to open Q's gate.

And that was more or less the last time he had spoken to Q. By that afternoon 009 had gotten himself embroiled in some disaster of an op in Bhutan, and Q had finally chased Bond out of Q-Branch at midnight, promising to take the car service home. If he wasn't back by tonight Bond might consider some light kidnapping. He did owe Q a dinner, after all.

Bond closed the door to the house behind him and toed off his trainers. He padded into the living room in his socks, smiling at what he found. Q was draped bonelessly across the length of the sofa, snoring gently into Bond's pillow. His glasses were askew, and Bond carefully removed them, placing them on the coffee table. He resisted the urge to run a hand through Q's riotous hair and left him in peace, heading into the en suite for a shower.

He was just pulling on some jeans when he heard muffled noises from the living area. He burst through the door, skidding to a relieved stop in front of the sofa. Q was just dreaming — a nightmare by the looks of it.

"Q...wake up..." Unthinking, he reached out to touch Q's shoulder.

Q burst into motion, jolting upright, throwing an elbow that caught Bond smack across the jaw. Bond instinctively grabbed at his wrist, trying to restrain him, and Q bit viciously at his forearm. Bond grunted in pain, trying to call Q's name. Lightning-fast Q kicked at Bond's legs and head-butted his chin, sending him tumbling backwards over the coffee table with a violent crash.

Bond had the presence of mind to scramble backwards this time as Q stood, his whole body tense as a wire, his head whipping around to find the next threat, his eyes wide and unseeing.

"Q," Bond finally managed to wheeze. "It's Bond. You're safe. You were dreaming."

Q froze, his blood-smeared mouth working noiselessly for a moment before he appeared able to speak. "Bond?" he said, his brow furrowing.

"Yeah." Bond curled upright, ignoring the protest of his still-healing ribs.

Q's whole body was shaking. His knees appeared to give out and he sank abruptly to the sofa. "I can't  _see,_ " he said, sounding confused and plaintive now.

_Fuck._ It came back to Bond in a flash, Q's confession as they had shared a bottle of whiskey on the anniversary of Vesper's death.

_The worst part was when one little bastard figured out to take my glasses,_  Q had said.  _I don't dream of it often, but when I do, that's what I dream. Being blind. Everything just a blur of color and noise, not being able to see where the next touch was coming from. Not being able to defend myself against it._

"Jesus, Q, I'm sorry," Bond rasped. "Your glasses are on the coffee table. Here..." He picked them up and touched them to Q's hand. Q flinched away — Christ, he really was blind without them — but then grasped them almost frantically, unfolding them and settling them on his face.

"Oh, bloody  _hell_ ," he said, blinking once at his now-clear view of Bond. "What did I do to you?" He rounded the coffee table, kneeling at Bond's side.

"Not nearly as much as I deserve," Bond said wryly. "I'm sorry, Q, I didn't even think...your glasses looked like they might break..."

"Never mind that," Q said, his voice growing steadier. "I — I bit you?" His eyes were on Bond's forearm, where an undeniable bite mark was slowly seeping blood. Q wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, looking at the resulting smear of blood on his pale flesh with horror.

"I'm clean. You don't have to worry —"

" _I know that,"_ Q interrupted curtly. "Christ, Bond, I  _bit_  you, and — what else did I do? Your ribs?"

Q reached a hand forward as if to touch Bond's bare chest and then pulled it back abruptly.

"I'm fine, Q. Really. Are  _you_? That was a bloody good Glasgow kiss you gave me."

Q rubbed his forehead bashfully, as if just now realizing what he had done. "I'm fine. I'll get the medical kit."

Bond could hear Q quickly washing his hands and face before returning with the medical kit from the bathroom.

Q sat next to Bond on the sofa, opening the kit with quick deft movements, but when he reached out to dab antiseptic on the wound his hand was shaking noticeably.

"Here," Bond said, carefully taking the gauze pad from him without touching his fingers. "I can do it." He didn't want to force Q into close proximity if he needed some space.

Q put his head in his hands, staring down at his feet. "I'm sorry," he said tightly.

"Nothing to apologise for." Bond said firmly. "God knows I have nightmares often enough, I should have known better." He smirked. "Just think how it will improve your reputation at work when word gets around that you gave a double-oh a thrashing. The return rates for your tech will skyrocket."

Q glanced up sharply. "It's not funny."

"No," Bond agreed. But he would rather have Q angry than on the verge of tears as he seemed a moment ago. "Q, you're exhausted. I'm fine. Go get some rest. I still owe you a dinner, and I'd rather that you were conscious for it."

"Yes. Right." Q was still shaking and sweating, and Bond was almost consumed by the urge to gather him close. Instead he returned Q's curt nod and watched him go into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.

* * *

Dinner was a study in things left unsaid. Q emerged shortly before dinnertime, freshly-showered but still sleepy-eyed, his eyes skittering away nervously from Bond's every time their glances happened to meet.

Bond knew exactly why Q had reacted the way he had, and Q knew that Bond knew. Q's eyes lingered on Bond's developing bruises and the patch of gauze covering his forearm, but he said nothing.

Instead they talked about where Bond had learned to cook curry, and about 009's disastrous mission. They traded tidbits of information about Mallory and Tanner and Moneypenney, swapping stories about the various improbable escapades of the other double-ohs.

Q did the washing up this time, and Bond suddenly realized that they hadn't touched all evening. Was that Q's doing, or Bond's? Bond honestly didn't know. Q had kept his distance as Bond finished the final steps of the cooking, and Bond hadn't reached out either, not sure how physical contact would be received.

He leaned against the counter, watching Q for some sign of what he should do, and finding nothing.

"You must be tired," Q said over his shoulder. "You can go ahead if you like, I'll finish up here."

Was that a rejection? It certainly sounded like one, and yet there was something a little too alert in Q's posture. Not so much wariness, as it was...awareness.

_Sod this,_  Bond thought. Subtlety was never his forte, he might as well live up to his reputation.

"What do I do?" he asked abruptly. Q turned the water off and dried his hands carefully.

"About what?" Q was trying for a casual tone of voice, and failing miserably.

"About...this." Bond's curt hand gesture encompassed all the empty space between them. "Q, I don't give a single fuck about what happened earlier, except for feeling like a bloody fool for not knowing better and worrying about what it's done to you. So just tell me...are you angry, or upset, or sick of me, or what? Because I sure as hell don't need to go to bed at ten o'clock unless you're just trying to get rid of me."

Q's whole body seemed to sag, the stiff tension easing from his spine. "I'm not trying to get rid of you at all. I just..." He met Bond's eyes, managing to hold his gaze for the first time all evening. "I'm embarrassed, I suppose. And I hurt you."

Bond felt something unknot in his chest. He moved closer. "I'm a bloody awful double-oh if I can't take a few thumps, Q. And you have nothing to be embarrassed about. In fact, I was impressed. You're quite...scrappy."

"Don't patronize me," Q said sharply. "You've been through things infinitely worse. Actual  _torture_. And you're — you're not  _broken_  by it."

"Neither are you," Bond said firmly. Q stared down at his hands as Bond took a final step closer, standing within a pace of him. "Can I still touch you?"

Q's head jerked up in surprise. "Of  _course_ ," he said. "I hadn't meant to imply that you couldn't. I thought perhaps you didn't want to after — "

"Q," Bond interrupted. "Shut up for a moment." He reached out slowly, pulling Q into his arms, feeling his momentary startlement before he settled into the embrace. Even though they were almost of a height, Q managed to fit in against Bond's body perfectly, resting his forehead into the lee of Bond's neck with a sigh.

Bond's hands moved gently, soothingly over Q's back. They stood there, silent except for the sound of their quiet breathing, for long moments. Bond let his mind empty of everything except the feeling of Q in his arms, leaning trustingly against him as the last of the tension bled away from them both — the warmth of his body, the comfort of his scent, the soft humid puff of his breath against Bond's throat.

"C'mon," Bond finally murmured. "Watch telly with me. I've discovered all the  _Top Gear_  on your DVR that you've been hiding from me."

Q laughed, shaking his head against Bond's neck. "How do you just..."

He pulled back, searching Bond's face. His beautiful grey-green eyes were bright and damp, his soft mobile mouth perfectly pink. Bond suddenly, achingly, wanted to kiss him more than anything else in the world.

Q's eyes widened for a quick moment and he ducked his head, stepping back. "Okay," he said. "Telly it is."

* * *

Three episodes later Bond was halfway to asleep, his head once again on Q's thigh, Q's left hand carding through his hair absent-mindedly while his right hand tapped at his laptop. The tapping stopped for a moment, and Bond moved his eyes from the screen to find Q watching him, his head tipped down, glasses pushed slightly askew where his cheek pressed against the back of the sofa.

Bond smiled up at Q, straightening his glasses with a gentle fingertip. "You sleep with them on, then?" he asked drowsily.

Q flushed a little, but held Bond's gaze, nodding. "It's ridiculous, I know. But the frames are my own design. A titanium core, surrounded by shape-memory polymer. They're stronger than they look. They bend, but they won't break."

Bond's smile widened. "Just like you."

Q's flush deepened, but his mouth quirked into a smile. "Go to sleep. You're talking nonsense."

Bond hummed thoughtfully, closing his eyes again, luxuriating in Q's touch.  _Nonsense indeed._ Each of Q's inventions was a reflection of the man himself.  _Ingenious. Resilient._ Bond smiled to himself.  _Desirable._

* * *


	21. The Visit

Huge thanks again to Sekishi for the French translations!

* * *

Bond returned from his morning run to find Q already showered and dressed. He stopped in the entryway in surprise, toeing off his trainers.

"Sunday morning...I thought you'd be sleeping in," he remarked.

Q seemed edgy, avoiding Bond's eyes. "I have an errand to run. I'll be back in the afternoon."

"Okay." Bond pulled off his sweaty t-shirt as he walked to the shower, pretending not to see the relief in Q's eyes. So this was why Q had hesitated when Bond mentioned staying the week-end.

Bond let the shower stream over him, grappling with his conscience. When he heard the front door close, however, he was out of the shower in moments, toweling off rapidly and slipping into his clothes.

He trailed Q to the Tufnell Park Tube stop, keeping a careful distance back on the stairs and entering two train cars behind him. Fifteen minutes later Q got off at Charing Cross, catching the railway to Orpington. Half an hour later he got off at the Elmstead Woods stop, Bond lingering on the train and jumping off at the last minute so he wouldn't run into Q on the platform at the pokey little station.

The train pulled away and Bond looked through the stationhouse to the street beyond. He couldn't see Q. He walked casually through the station, lingering in the doorway, looking up and down the street. Q was nowhere to be found.

_Dammit._ Bond looked in the gent's at the train station but it was empty. Finally he walked out onto the street, shading his eyes, looking for Q's back in either direction.

"Lose something?" Q's voice was more amused than exasperated. He stepped out from behind an oak tree, barely twenty feet to Bond's right. "I thought you were a  _professional_ ," he said dryly.

Christ. Bond felt himself flushing, ridiculously. "Usually my targets aren't skinny enough to hide behind saplings," he retorted, trying to salvage his dignity.

Q just looked him up and down. Finally he seemed to reach a decision. "Well come on then, if you're coming." He started off down the road.

Bond jogged a little to catch up, feeling suddenly sheepish. He had promised to let Q keep his secrets, and here he was, caught out stalking him. "I can wait for you here," he conceded. "That cafe over there looks...charming."

Q snorted in amusement. "Trust me, that cafe is abominable," he said. He was joking, but the choice of words sent a pang through Bond's chest.

He stopped walking suddenly. "I do. Trust you, I mean," he said awkwardly. He huffed out a frustrated breath. "I shouldn't have come."

Q had turned to face Bond when he stopped, and now some of his brittle detachment fell away. He took a step closer, taking Bond's hand. "I don't mind. Really." He sighed. "Maybe it'll be easier with you along."

With that cryptic remark he dropped Bond's hand and set off down the road again. "It's about a kilometre. Usually a pleasant enough walk," he said, and then lapsed back into silence, seeming lost in his thoughts. Bond walked next to him, equally silent.

Just when Bond thought there could be nothing at all out here in the backwoods of Bromley they came upon a large manor house, set back in the woods at the bottom of a circular drive.  _Eversleigh_ , the sign at the drive read.  _"We Care More."_

Bond followed Q up the steps and through the front door. Behind what looked like a combination of a reception desk and a nurses' station a grey-haired woman in crisp scrubs smiled brightly.

"Hullo, Vanessa," Q said.

"Hullo, dear," the woman greeted Q. "You've brought a friend with you today. How lovely!"

Q blushed a little, and the woman's smile widened. "She's in the garden today."

Bond put his hand in Q's and squeezed. "Thank you," he said for both of them. Q's blush intensified, but he didn't remove his hand from Bond's.

They passed a few other residents and staff on their way to the back of the house. All of the residents were quite elderly. One or two of them stared sharp-eyed at Bond as he passed, but most had a kind of vagueness to their eyes, looking around themselves incuriously.

Bond had expected to be meeting Q's grand-mère, but Q stopped on the terrace overlooking the back garden, gesturing at a still lovely middle-aged woman sitting in a chair below, her hair a dark brown only lightly streaked with silver. At first Bond thought she was a staff member, but a moment later he realised that she was dressed in simple casual clothing rather than the scrubs or uniforms identifying the staff.

Q hitched a hip up on the wall of the terrace, making no move to go closer at present. He looked at Bond for a long moment.

"My  _maman_ ," he finally said softly. "She is...confused. I call her by her name, Naila, to avoid distressing her. She has episodes of temper as well. She can't help it, it's not at all what she was like before. She won't hurt me, but...you should be prepared."

Bond nodded, his chest aching a little more with every word of Q's matter-of-fact explanation. "She's so young," he wondered out loud.

Q nodded. "It's not dementia. She's been this way for more than fifteen years. When it happened — she was younger than I am now." His mouth twisted bitterly, and somehow Bond knew that whatever Q was going to say next was the worst part. Q blinked rapidly a few times, his eyes sliding away from Bond's gaze. "She doesn't know me at all," he finally said softly.

Bond squeezed Q's hand again, feeling out of his depth. He didn't really remember losing his parents, had only vague impressions of even having a mother. And yet, how much worse must this be, Q's mother still alive but so changed, unable to even recognise her son?

"I'm sorry, Q," Bond ended up saying.

Q nodded. He cleared his throat. "Dense retrograde and anterograde amnesia, they call it," he said, his voice carefully neutral now. "If pressed she still thinks she's in her late teens or early twenties, it varies day by day. Sometimes she mentions a baby, but usually not. She was only seventeen when she had me, and of course grand-mère raised me those first few years while maman finished University."

Bond nodded, fitting the pieces together in his head with Q's words overheard on his earpiece so many months ago.  _Moving her now — do you understand the trauma that would entail? I had one requirement,_ _one_ _, when I came on here, and that was a guarantee of her safety..."_

"Well. Come on, then." Q let go of Bond's hand and started down the terrace steps.

The woman looked up as they approached, smiled vaguely, and then looked back at the garden. A white butterfly was swooping gracefully among the flowers, and she followed it with her eyes. Q sat on the low garden wall, and after a moment's hesitation Bond settled beside him.

"Hullo Naila," Q said, his voice gentle.

"Hullo." She smiled brightly, and Bond's breath caught. When she smiled her eyes were a mirror of Q's — grey-green and luminous, small crinkles at the outer edges. She looked at Q, her brow furrowing just slightly. Her eyes moved on to Bond, and her expression turned placid again.

"This is James," Q said.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Naila said, her voice as posh and rich as Q's. "James. And...?" She looked back at Q, hesitating.

"Jasper," Q said smoothly. "The garden is beautiful today, isn't it?"

"It is. I love flowers." She looked at Q, her eyes suddenly flashing with sharp intelligence. "Jasper is a lovely name. It means 'keeper of treasure,' in my language."

"Does it?" Q smiled softly. "Very appropriate then. I've brought you this." He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small oblong shape, covered in shiny red foil.

Bond could sense the cadence of an oft-repeated script, but Naila appeared genuinely surprised, clapping her hands like a child. "Marzipan!"

Q held it out and she took it, immediately unwrapping it. "It's my favorite," she confided. She took a bite, smiling happily at them both. She held out the bar to them. "Would you like some?"

They both declined and she shrugged, taking another bite.

She chattered happily about the garden and some of the things she had done lately, muddling together summer and winter activities and not appearing to notice the incongruity. Q managed the conversation adeptly, redirecting her with gentle questions whenever she seemed confused.

She was talking about a cake she had baked when she suddenly broke off, looking sharply at Q again. "Are you a friend of Richard's?" she asked.

Q's flinch was almost imperceptible, just a tightening around his eyes and a sudden stillness in his hands. "I'm afraid not," he said. "Did you decorate the cake yourself, or —"

"You told me you were a friend of Richard's!" Naila interrupted. "Why didn't you bring him?" Her voice climbed hysterically. "I don't care about you.  _He_  should be coming to visit me." She stood up, looking around herself angrily.

"I'm sure he'll be here soon," Q said, his voice low and placating. He stood as well, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Tell me about —"

"Liar!" Naila's eyes were wild. She knocked Q's arm away roughly, and Bond found himself already on his feet, just barely restraining himself from stepping between them. "Stop telling lies. Everyone is always lying to me. I want  _Richard_ , not you. Where is he? Tell me at once!" Her agitation grew until she was screaming the final words.

Vanessa, the woman who had greeted them at the reception desk was hurrying down the terrace steps.

Q lowered his voice soothingly. " _S'il-te-plait ne te mets pas dans cette état,"_ he murmured.  _"Je sais que c'est perturbant, mais tout ira bien. Richard sera bientôt de retour. Profite du jardin, c'est une belle journée. Il ne devrait y avoir rien d'autre que du bonheur un jour comme celui-là ."*_

Naila looked at Bond imploringly.  _"Je me fiche du jardin. Je veux juste voir Richard,"_ she said. She looked back at Q, her mouth twisting with disgust.  _"Je ne veux plus vous revoir vous et votre face de menteur,"_ she spat.**

Vanessa had made her way over to them, puffing slightly.

"There there now, dear," she said to Naila. "No cause for upset, is there? We're all great friends."

Naila threw herself into Vanessa's arms, hugging her. Vanessa looked at Q over Naila's shoulder, her expression apologetic. "She's been a bit agitated lately," she explained. "I'm so sorry, dear."

"It's fine," Q said, managing a polite smile. "It's time we were going anyway. Good afternoon, Naila. I will see you again soon."

Naila made an angry noise, refusing to look around. As Q and Bond went up the stairs, Bond could hear Vanessa speaking. "It's almost lunchtime dear. You can help me set the table..."

* * *

*"Please do not be distressed. I know it is confusing, but all will be well. Richard will return soon. Enjoy the garden, it's a lovely day. There should be nothing but happiness on a day like this."

**"I don't care about the garden. I just want to see Richard. I don't want to see you and your lying face again."

* * *


	22. The Story

* * *

Q and Bond walked back down the country road in silence. When they got to the high street Q checked his watch and grimaced. "We just missed the train. It'll be forty-five minutes until the next one." He squinted, looking down the street. "I wasn't kidding — that cafe is abominable, but we could get a sandwich or something."

They settled at the small cafe table with some dodgy-looking sandwiches and two only slightly more appealing cups of tea. Bond laid his hand over Q's and Q flashed him a grateful smile.

"Tell me what she was like," Bond said. "Before."

Q's eyes widened in surprise for a moment, but then he smiled fondly. "She was...lovely. I remember so looking forward to her visits when I was living with grand-mère." His mouth twisted ironically for a moment before his expression softened again. "She brought  _me_  chocolate-covered marzipan, then. And she laughed all the time. She was so full of life."

Q sighed. "Then I went to live with her, and I started to see her a little more clearly. Speaking of names, hers —  _Naila_  — means ambition. She was very much the opposite, a complete dreamer. She was always brilliant, but so foolish at the same time."

Q took a sip of his tea, collecting his thoughts. "I think she was so...lively, because she was scared to stop and think for a moment. She fell for one man after another, all of them married or complete prats, or both. I learned not to get attached."

Q stared down into his teacup, his expressive brow furrowing with remembered pain. "Grand-mère died when I was eleven. And then at thirteen I went to Harrow." Q's eyes flashed bright at Bond for a moment. "You know how that is. They ask who your parents are before they ask your name, and there  _I_ was, tuition paid by a man who had formally disavowed me. The whole school knew I was a bastard before I even had my house assignment."

"Snotty little wankers," Bond agreed. "Of course, I was sent down from Eton after two halves."

Q rolled his eyes. "Yes, well 'girl trouble' was not my issue."

Bond snorted. "You really have memorized my file, haven't you?"

Q blushed a little, shrugging. "Seducing a maid at age thirteen is  _somewhat_  memorable," he said wryly.

"Well, I wasn't all that smooth, I assure you," Bond laughed. "I barely got my hand up her skirt and got thrown out on my arse for my trouble. Not that I minded. Fettes was more to my liking, anyway."

Q nodded. "Yes. Well, I wasn't at Harrow long either," he said, his hands tightening on his teacup as he apparently contemplated the next part of his story.

Bond stayed silent. He already knew that Q had been sentenced at sixteen; the math wasn't complicated. He would listen if Q was ready to share the circumstances leading up to his imprisonment, but he wouldn't push.

"The other boyfriends had been rotters, all of them, but only the last one was...cruel," Q finally said. "I met him on winter holidays, and he was an arse. Always putting her down, but she wouldn't hear a word against him. By Easter holidays he was worse. Violent."

Q's eyes flew up to Bond's face. "I tried to report him, I did, but she denied everything and nothing came of it. I was so angry, and probably a bit of a coward." He looked away again, his mouth pressed into a tight line. "I just...left. Stormed out without even telling her goodbye. Spent the last few days around London with the little bit of pocket money I had earned, sleeping rough in my damned Harrow uniform. I'm lucky I didn't get my throat cut. I made my way back to school on my own."

Q swallowed the dregs of his tea, long-since grown cold. "By summer holidays it was...intolerable. He'd landed her in A&E a few times in between, but everyone looked the other way. He started in on her again, and when I got in the middle he started in on me."

Q's eyes were cold now, his thoughts seemingly trapped in the past. "I bought a gun. That was the part that got me, the firearms violation. And the premeditation. The only one I could afford was broken — dodgy as the guy was, I think that's the only reason he sold it to a kid like me. But I was good at fixing things, even back then. I took it apart and put it back together again, and I got it working."

Bond pictured Q's hands, elegant and deft on his Walther, and imagined him back then. How old must he have been — Sixteen? Fifteen, even? Small and alone and bloodied, that look of intent concentration on his young face as he carefully repaired and reassembled a black-market firearm. The wave of protective rage threatened to swamp Bond, and he gritted his teeth against it.

"I don't know if I really meant to shoot him, or if I thought I could just...scare him away somehow." Q's mouth twisted bitterly. "I was such a naive little twit. I barely got it out of my pocket and he had it away from me, like it was nothing. Knocked me across the room, and beat the stuffing out of us both."

Q's laugh was humorless, chilling. "Then he put the gun down on the coffee table, and went to get a beer. Just like that. Like he just  _knew_  I wasn't any threat to him."

Q's eyes met Bond's, and Bond saw that flash again, the cold and steely ferocity he had last seen in Mallory's office. "He was wrong," Q said flatly. "I shot him in the back three times before he could crack open the bottle."

" _Good,_ " Bond said with cold satisfaction. Maybe it wasn't the proper thing to say, but it was the truth.

Q's voice was rueful. "Oh, I don't regret it, not for a second. I only regret that I didn't manage it earlier, when I first pulled the gun." He dropped his gaze, his voice a husky whisper. "That quarter-hour made all the difference in the world for maman."

He slumped down in the chair, rattling off the medical terms. "Traumatic brain injury. Multiple haemorrhages to the corpus callosum, bifrontal regions, and left hippocampus and thalamus. She's disoriented, emotionally labile, and prone to confabulation. And of course the dense amnesias, as bad as any they've ever seen." He studied the bottom of his empty teacup again, his voice distant and meditative. "Trapped in her adolescence, like a butterfly in amber."

Bond scooted his chair closer to Q, putting his arm around his shoulders. Q sighed, leaning into Bond's shoulder.

"It's not your fault, Q. You did everything you could, more than should ever have been asked of you. You were still a child."

Q shook his head against Bond's shoulder in harsh negation.

"Maybe for someone else that would have been an excuse, but not for me," he mumbled into Bond's shirt. He drew back, his eyes fathomless. "I was never a child, Bond. I could out-think most adults by age eight. I knew what we were heading towards and I just thought...I thought I had more time. It took me too long to screw up my courage, to take action. I was a coward."

Bond reached out, cupping Q's cheek. "You're the furthest thing from a coward, Q."

Q sighed, his eyes drifting closed at Bond's touch. "I didn't save her."

Bond heard in his words the echo of many other statements.  _I should have seen Silva coming. If it means one less death of an operative on my conscience..._

"You can't save everyone, Q."

"I know that, Bond." Q just sounded tired now. "But I could have saved  _her_."

* * *

They walked back to the train hand-in-hand, settling on the platform bench.

"So Richard is your father?" Bond asked.

Q nodded. "My barrister tried to contact him when my case came before the Crown Court, hoping to get a supervision order for me. I told her not to bother, but she was young and idealistic. I'm sure she had some heart-warming scenario in mind — the bastard son welcomed back into the fold, saved him from incarceration. He told her to piss off. Said that I had violated the no-contact agreement and so he was no longer required to pay for my education. Not that it mattered a jot at that point."

"You know who he is?"

Q smiled wryly. "Of course. He's a dyed-in-the-wool Tory with a summer home in Majorca and a seat on the House of Lords. He has a beautiful blonde wife and beautiful blond children, not too much younger than I am."

"I'm surprised you haven't destroyed him."

Q laughed, bumping his shoulder against Bond's. "Trust me, I've thought about it." Bond could tell he was not entirely joking. Q shrugged. "But he was young then, too. He wasn't the first spoiled brat to get a girl up the duff and then try to wish the whole thing away. Hardly worth my wrath." Q grinned. "Which is considerable, I assure you. If I got started, I probably wouldn't be able to stop."

Bond grinned in return. "I have absolutely no doubt."

* * *

Q dozed for most of the ride home, leaning against Bond on the trains and letting him guide his stumbling steps through the stations. He was still yawning enormously when they made it back to his house, both of them toeing off their shoes in the entryway.

"Sorry." Q smiled sheepishly. "Still haven't shifted back from sleeping most of Saturday. Only caught an hour or two last night."

Bond smiled. "Go lie down. I'll wake you for dinner."

Q took a step and then turned around again. His eyes were cast downwards, color high in his cheeks. "You could come with me, you know. To lie down."

Bond felt the slow pull of inevitability. "Yes," he said. "I could."

He followed Q to the bedroom. Q lay down somewhat stiffly on his back, and Bond lay down next to him, on his side. Bond studied Q's profile as he stared at the ceiling for a moment, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"No one alive knows as much about me as you do," Q said to the ceiling.

Bond felt both the power and the responsibility of that statement. Q's trust was not given easily, and yet he had chosen to give it to someone like Bond. When exactly had that happened, and when had Bond begun to trust Q so unreservedly in return? Could he say the same — did anyone alive know him better than Q? He didn't think so.

Q turned toward Bond, his eyes wide and expectant behind his glasses. They both moved a little closer until their bodies just skimmed each other, their faces so close that they were breathing each other's breath.

Bond traced a thumb across Q's cheekbone, feeling the prickle of day-old stubble on Q's fair skin. "Christ, Q," he breathed, his chest tight with some unnamed emotion. "I just —"

Q moved suddenly, pressing their lips together, fervent and awkward. Bond instinctively clutched him closer. He tilted his head into the kiss, holding back and allowing Q to explore. Q's tongue flickered out to taste Bond's lips, the tentative movement sending a rush of tenderness through Bond. Christ, he was sweet, so very sweet...

Q's hands were fisted in Bond's shirt, fingers digging in almost painfully. Bond opened his mouth, sucking gently on Q's tongue, inviting him in, and the soft little exclamation Q made sent a spike of lust straight to Bond's toes.

Bond growled into the kiss, feeling Q shudder against him. Then he was coaxing Q's mouth open in return, finally,  _finally_  sucking on that beautifully pink lower lip, tasting him fully — tea and warmth and Q.

Q was making soft eager little noises now, his hips pushing unconsciously against Bond's in small seeking movements. Bond swallowed every broken moan and sigh, delving his hands into that riotous hair and savoring the taste of Q, warm and soft and delicious.

Q surged forward, tipping Bond over almost onto his back, clambering half on top of him. His mouth was unpracticed and greedy, almost frantic as he licked deeper, sucking Bond's tongue as if he couldn't get close enough.

Bond felt arousal burning hot in his belly, on the edge of losing control. So this was Q in bed — fierce and focused and needy, all his calm detachment shattered. Just the idea of it hazed Bond's thoughts — lust and possessiveness and protectiveness in an almost unbearable tumult of emotion.

God, the things Bond wanted to do to Q. He wanted to take him apart, wanted to have him in every way possible. Wanted to lick him and suck him and fuck him until everything in Q's past was burned to ashes, until nothing in Q's world mattered except Bond.  _And then what?_ Bond's traitorous mind whispered.  _What happens next?_

With a ragged gasp Bond took control of the kiss, slowly gentling it, tender and persuasive. Finally he pulled free, unable to help himself from grazing his teeth down Q's pale throat, placing a final sucking bite in the hollow of his neck and glorying in the hoarse sound that elicited.

He pulled Q's head against his chest, cradling him close, Q's glasses digging sharply into his sternum. Their bodies were pressed tightly together, both of them unashamedly hard. "Enough," Bond said roughly. "Enough for now."

There was a moment of silence in which only their ragged breathing was heard, and then Q pushed his head up. "What?" His eyes searched Bond's face, his brow furrowed. "Why, dammit?"

"Just..." Q looked unutterably beautiful, his already-chaotic hair touseled, his pink lips lush and wet from Bond's mouth.  _It's too much,_  Bond wanted to say, unnerved by what he was feeling.  _I don't know what I'm doing._ "You're upset," he heard himself saying instead.

He felt Q's whole body tense for a moment before he shoved himself free, scrambling to sit up.

"I'm... _upset?"_ he asked disbelievingly.

_Fuck,_  Bond thought.

"Is that what this is?" Q's kiss-swollen lips pressed into a tight line. "Comfort?" The grey-green eyes grew flinty.  _"Pity?"_

Bond pushed himself up to sitting also, his mind still spinning with the jumble of his thoughts. "Of course not."

"Then  _what?"_

"I don't  _know,"_  Bond snapped, all his emotional turmoil and confusion reaching a flashpoint into angry frustration. "What the  _hell_  do you want from me, Q?"

Q pushed himself off the bed, straightening his shirt, avoiding Bond's eyes. "Nothing," he said flatly. "I don't want anything from you."

"Bloody hell, Q, that's not —"

Bond's mobile buzzed in his pocket.

Q's jaw twitched. "You'd best answer that."

"No. We're finishing this."

"I'd say we're fairly well finished," Q said frostily.

"Like hell." Bond stood, taking a cautious step few steps closer. "Q, I care about you."

"Yeah. Well. Ta for that. Now tell me what comes after the 'but'..."

"Will you stop being so — so  _snide_  for a moment and just listen to me?" Bond let his breath out in a ragged sigh, trying to calm himself. He put his hand on Q's arm, thankful that Q didn't pull away.

"Q, you know what I do," Bond said, his voice low and rough. He pulled Q into his arms, muttering the next words into the skin of his neck. "You know what I  _am._ "

"Of course I know," Q said, the sharpness gone from his voice. "Do you really think it's your decision to protect me from that? That's — that's patronizing _bullshit."_

This time both their mobiles buzzed. Q took a step back. "Answer your mobile, Bond," he said more gently. "We can sort this out later."

"They can wait a few minutes."

"So can we." Q's eyes were somber as they searched Bond's face. "Take some time. Figure out what you want, Bond. I'll do the same."

Bond hesitated, sure there was something else he could say to fix this. Before he could think of anything, Q pulled his mobile from his pocket.

"Q here," he said, turning away. "Yes, R, I'm listening..."

Bond watched his slim back through the doorway before pulling his own mobile from his pocket. "007 here." he said grimly. "Go ahead."

* * *


	23. The Meeting

The lounge at the Baur au Lac hotel in Zurich was dark and intimate. Chocolate-colored wood covered every surface, lightened only by the creamy leather upholstery of the barstools and booths and the golden pools of light cast by subtly-placed pendant lamps.

Bond could easily believe that Genevieve Bruder had chosen the setting to perfectly showcase her assets. Her creamy freckled skin shone gold in the puddles of lamplight, her auburn hair glinting penny-bright against the dark wood paneling.

Bond ordered a martini at the bar and slipped into the booth across from her. She smiled warmly and leaned back against the cream leather upholstery. The plum-colored dress hugged every curve of her body as Bond let his eyes wander over her appreciatively. Her firearm was holstered to her left thigh as usual, but there was the slightest hitch in the softly-draped fabric of her dress over her right inner forearm as well.

Bond inclined his head. "Genny," he said, taking her right hand, tracing a soft spiral in the palm before letting his fingers trail teasingly up her forearm, identifying the shape. A sheathed throwing knife. Interesting.

Genny's mouth twitched in acknowledgement. "Something new," she said.

She leaned forward, kissing his mouth slowly and lingeringly, her left hand tracing over his suit jacket. "I'll give you a closer look upstairs," she whispered. With a bright smile, she picked up her clutch from the table and slid from the booth.

Bond sipped his martini, letting it settle crisp and bitter on his tongue. He finished the drink leisurely before making his way to the elevators, pulling out the key card she had slipped into his breast pocket.

"Q," he murmured quietly in the elevator. "Room 739."

"Copy that." Bond heard Q's quiet breathing, the soft tapping of his fingers on the keyboard. "Hall looks clear. Do you think it's an ambush?"

Bond chuckled. "I've known Genny for years. If she wanted me dead I'd have a knife between my ribs already. But, yes, I always think it's an ambush. Keeps me on my toes."

Q hummed thoughtfully. "The CCTV footage goes back twenty-four hours...I don't see anyone but housekeeping entering the room. Your tiepin camera is transmitting well, leave it where I can watch your back."

The elevator dinged and Bond made his way down the hallway, unbuttoning his jacket for easy access to his firearm.

He opened the door and stepped in the room.

Genny was laid out on the bed sumptuously, her dress rucked up to mid-thigh.

Bond laughed, shedding his jacket to sit next to her. "No small talk?" he smirked, sliding his fingers up behind her knee.

"Afterwards," she purred, wriggling a little to slide his fingers higher up her thigh. "I've missed you."

Bond leaned down and kissed her, humming into her mouth. "I understood you had some information for me," he murmured. "Something the Bundesnachrichtendienst would rather you pass along through 'unofficial channels'?"

Genny pouted, sliding off the bed in one sinuous movement and presenting Bond with her back. "Unzip me, James. I've missed you." She pulled aside the long fall of her hair, peeking over her shoulder with a mischievous look in her brown eyes. "If you're a very good boy you'll get your information."

Bond kissed the nape of her neck. "I  _do_  appreciate a challenge..."

He followed the line of the zipper with little kisses and nips over every inch of golden freckled skin that was revealed. The silk dress fell to the ground in a puddle and Genny turned, standing between his thighs in just her bra, panties and two weapons.

_Q's tiepin camera must be getting quite the view._ The thought made Bond surprisingly uncomfortable, but he dismissed it immediately. Q had been his eyes and ears on many a honeypot mission; whatever had happened between them didn't change that. They both knew the job.

Genny started unbuttoning his collar, her clever fingers working quickly, and Bond distracted her by picking her up and tossing her on the bed before she could reach for the tiepin. She giggled, bouncing a few times, and Bond smiled.

In an act of good faith Bond shrugged out of his shoulder holster first, dropping it by the side of the bed within easy reach. His hands lingered on Genny's creamy skin as he slowly unbuckled the holster from her thigh, tossing it next to his.

"Mmmmm." She threw her head back as he brushed his knuckles up over the soft silk of her panties, nibbling on the skin of her belly. He captured her right hand, sucking a finger slowly into his mouth before kissing up her wrist to the sheath strapped to her inner forearm.

He traced his fingers over it. "Beautiful," he commented. It was, in fact, quite impressive — a perfectly-balanced and whisper-thin contraption, straps of webbing holding a throwing knife securely in place, hilt down for easy access.

His left hand scratched blunt fingernails down her back as his right hand felt the straps of the sheath, looking for the clasp.

"He might not be as brilliant as yours, but our  _Quartiermeister_  is very good..."

Bond's head jerked up, his jaw clenched, his heart thumping. "What?"

Genny wove her fingers into Bond's hair, playfully pushing his head down again. "Come now, James. Your clever little boy is the talk of all the agencies..."

The next thing Bond knew Genny was face down on the bed, his knee in the small of her back. His left hand pinned her neck while his right hand held her forearm twisted sharply behind her, his palm over the hilt of the knife. "What do you know about my Quartermaster?" he gritted out.

Genny kept carefully still, breathing in short quick pants. "Let me up," she spat.  _"Lass mich, du Schuft!"_

"007." Q's voice was low and furious in his earpiece. "What are you  _doing?_  You'll blow the deal. Let her go."

Bond's whole body prickled with a cold sweat, his pulse thrumming. He took a deep breath, loosening his grip. Genny immediately squirmed free, the knife hissing like a viper as she pulled it from the sheath.

"Verdammt du Wichser! What the  _fuck_ , James?" she growled, holding the knife in front of her.

"What were you saying about our Quartermaster?" Bond repeated, forcing his voice into calmness.

Genny's eyes were steady on his. "Just that everybody's talking about him, du verdammtes Arschgesicht! Everyone sees the gadgets you are all carrying these days. Everyone knows that you can't even stick a toe past SIS's firewalls anymore, our Schwachkopf do nothing but complain about it. And everyone knows you have a brilliant young man in the Quartermaster's chair." She was calming down now, her voice laced with amusement. "It's hardly a secret, du blöder Arsch."

Bond breathed shallowly through his nose, trying to steady himself and bring his pulse down. "Just that? No name or location? No talk of...acquiring him?" He felt the words catch in his throat, his thoughts scattered by visions of Q shoved into a van on his way home from work or taken from his bed, cuffs biting into those slender wrists and that beautiful mouth bloodied.

"Of course not." She sheathed the knife and then held her hands up, her mouth tilting up in a seductive smile. "I've never seen you so... _protective_ , James." She wiggled her way back onto her back, spreading her legs. "I like it."

Bond looked at her, spread out in front of him, pink and lush, and his stomach turned. His mind revolted at the thought of touching her. "We look after our own," he said woodenly.

He was still kneeling on the bed. She held her arms out to him, but he felt thick-headed and frozen, unable to force himself to move. Genny's seductive smile started to falter, her brow furrowing.

"Bond," Q said quietly in his ear. "Are you all right?"

Bond shivered, forcing an easy smile onto his face. He leaned forward, taking her mouth in a deep kiss, his hand tracing up her thigh.

"Sorry I was a little rough with you, Liebchen," he murmured.

It was like a hackneyed script, Genny responding just as he knew she would. "You know I like it rough, James."

She laughed as he growled, scraping his teeth up her neck. "Do you know what we need?" he purred into her mouth.

"What?" she gasped as his hand slipped down, petting her softly through the silk.

"Champagne." He nipped her earlobe. "And chocolate sauce. Like that time in Bruges."

She giggled, and Bond sat back on his heels, pulling off his tie and dropping it pin-down on the bedside cabinet. He started unbuttoning his shirt. "Call room service, Liebchen. I'll be right back."

He strolled to the bathroom, shedding his shirt carelessly along the way, shutting the door firmly behind him. He turned the water on at the sink, refusing to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

"Q," he said.

"I'm here, 007. Your camera —"

"I know," Bond interrupted in a harsh whisper. He splashed cold water on his face and dried it with a towel. Q wasn't going to like this. "I need you out of my ear, Q."

"What?" Q's voice was blank with shock for just a moment. "No," he said, a flat denial.

"Q." Bond couldn't explain, didn't even know what it meant himself. Just the thought of Q in danger, and every single wall had come crashing down. He needed to compartmentalize to survive. He used to be a master at it and now suddenly he couldn't get back that detachment — not with Q's breath in his ear. "It won't be every time, I promise. Just...just for now."

"This is my  _job_ , 007."

Bond braced his arms on the bathroom counter, forcing himself to look in the mirror. He looked old and tired in the harsh bathroom light.

"I can't do this with you in my ear, Q. I'll put the camera back, I promise, just — just get someone else to monitor," he said. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to calm his shattered nerves.  _"Please."_

He could hear Q breathing unsteadily. "Copy that," Q finally said, his voice carefully neutral. "R has the comm. Q signing off."

"I have you, 007," R's steady voice said in his ear. "Is there anything you require?"

"No," Bond murmured. "Thank you, R." He turned off the tap and stood at the bathroom door, willing his body to relax, forcing his face into a familiar expression of predatory interest before opening the door.

"Now where were we, Liebchen?"

* * *


	24. The Confession

Q-Branch was almost deserted — only R left behind, looking bored as she did a crossword. Q's office was dark and quiet. Bond started to turn, figuring Q had gone home already, when a noise from R caught his attention. She cleared her throat again with a significant glance at Bond, jerking her head in the direction of Q's door.

Bond looked more closely and noticed the electronic lock, still lit green. Q would never have left his office unsecured. With a puzzled look at R he padded forward, pushing the door cautiously open.

To his surprise Q was sitting at his desk in the dark, his head in his hands. As the door clicked open he raised his head. Even in the dim light cast from the larger room Bond could see that his eyes were red, his mouth twisted in distress. Bond felt a spike of concern, ice-cold in his chest.

"Q?" he asked.

Q made a smothered noise, half irritation and half despair, and pressed his palms to his eyes. "You were supposed to stay in Zurich overnight," he groaned. "Hardly fair to the lady, is it?"

Bond hesitated, finally deciding that although it wasn't a warm welcome, it wasn't a rejection either. Bond took a step into the room, turning on a small lamp before letting the door click shut behind him. "Genny is a professional, Q. She had no expectations."

He smelled it then, the sweet smoky odor of Scotch. He took a few steps closer, lifting the glass at Q's side and sniffing it.

"Yes, I've been drinking," Q said, the words muffled by his hands on his face. "I'm off the clock. I'm an adult. I'm entitled."

Bond held up the bottle of Scotch, considering. His brand, in fact, and he wondered where in the office Q had been hiding it. Judging by level in the bottle Q had done himself some damage given how rarely he drank, but probably not too much. Bond carefully set the bottle down well out of Q's reach.

"Pot. Kettle," Q mumbled, without even raising his head.

"Q, what..." Bond didn't even realize he had put his hand on Q's shoulder until Q jerked sharply away, half falling out of his chair. He stumbled back a clumsy step, trying to catch his balance and failing, before landing on his arse.

"Bloody  _hell,"_ Bond said, feeling the sharp edge of protective rage starting to overtake him. Those kind of touches were commonplace between them, and Q hadn't reacted like that since before Sweden. "Q, tell me what happened  _right bloody now..."_

Q looked up at Bond, wary. He seemed to briefly consider climbing back into his chair and then to abandon the idea as a bad job, instead pushing himself until his back was against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his head on them. "It's nothing. It's stupid," he muttered despondently. "Just go away, I'm fine. I'll see you in the morning."

Bond clenched his fists, trying to think through the haze of rage and possessive concern. He had already been on edge, unnerved by what happened in Zurich, and now, seeing Q like this seemed to be unleashing something dark and fierce within him. "You are demonstrably  _not_  fine, Q." He gritted his teeth, but couldn't hold the words back any longer. "Did someone touch you? Because god help me..."

" _I asked him to!"_  Q said defiantly, finally raising his head. The words seemed to surprise them both equally, Q's grey-green eyes growing wide behind the frames of his glasses as Bond felt the breath punch out of his lungs.

Q ran a hand through his hair, biting his lip, before words started falling from him in a haphazard rush. "It was just a kiss, and I  _asked_  him to. And I  _hated_  it, and I couldn't face the Tube so I came back here and got drunk and cried, because that's  _exactly_  the kind of pathetic little knob-end that I am, okay? Are you happy now?  _Bloody hell!"_

Christ, Q was hissing and spitting at Bond like a cornered kitten, but the shame and self-loathing in his words drained the anger from Bond as suddenly as it had appeared.

Bond took off his suit jacket, draping it over the arm of the desk chair. Slowly, deliberately, he moved to Q's side, sinking down the wall until he was sitting a handsbreadth away from Q.

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Who was he?" he asked gently.

Q leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes with a sigh. "Just some harmless bloke who's been making calf's-eyes at me at the coffee shop for ages." His eyes cracked open just a bit. "You're not allowed to kill him," he added acerbically.

Bond waited until Q opened his eyes fully before slowly moving his hand, taking Q's cold fingers in his own and squeezing them. "And why did you do it?"

"It wasn't... _retaliation_ , if that's what you're thinking," Q said bitterly. "I know what you do for your missions isn't...personal. I'm not an idiot."

"Why, then?"

Q's fingers twitched in Bond's hand but then he tightened his grip as if gathering strength from Bond despite himself. He turned his head away, speaking so softly Bond could barely hear him. "Because I was a ridiculous enough git to think that maybe I had been...fixed. That if you could touch me, if I could like  _that_ , then maybe others could too. And I was completely fucking wrong. It's just you. So, you know..." Without looking at Bond he rested his head back against the wall, closing his eyes again. "Fuck. My. Life."

Bond was definitely going to hell, because nothing which caused Q such pain should ever make him feel so immensely, unbelievably happy.  _Just me,_ his mind growled in satisfaction.  _Mine._

He tamped down on that instinct, scooting a careful few inches closer until his shoulder bumped Q's. He relaxed as he felt Q lean into that pressure. With a smothered sound of relief Q rested his head on Bond's shoulder. Q made no protest as Bond transferred the grip of Q's fingers to his left hand. Bond lifted his right arm, wrapping it around Q's slim shoulders, gathering him in closer.

They sat in the dark like that for awhile, breathing in synchrony, letting some of the tension ease from them both. Q still held Bond's left hand tightly while Bond let his right hand trace through Q's hair.

"Is it so bad?" Bond finally said. "Having me be the only one?"

Q's shoulders twitched in some semblance of a shrug. "That can't possibly be what you want." He sounded desolate; utterly certain that the decision had already been made.

Bond had had felt this sensation before — falling off a bridge, the rushing water below, uncertain where he would land. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, feeling his heart stutter in his chest.

"What if it is?" he asked.

Q lifted his head so suddenly that he almost rapped Bond on the chin. "What?" His beautiful eyes were wide, searching Bond's as he tried to decipher his meaning.

"You asked me to think about what I want, and I did. In Zurich, and all the way back here, to you." Bond felt exhausted and vulnerable but he held Q's gaze, letting him see whatever he would see. "I'm telling you that this — that  _you_  — that this  _is_  what I want."

"You want...to be with me," Q repeated disbelievingly. "For how long?"

Bond sucked in a sharp breath. That stung, probably more than it should have. "Dammit, Q. For as long as you can stand me."

"How can that possibly work?" Q pulled away, running a hand through his hair in agitation. "Christ, Bond, you're accustomed to —" his gesture was an inarticulate flail "— athletic sex with gorgeous women on five continents, and I can't even fucking accept a  _hug_  without jumping half out of my skin." Q buried his head in his hands. "This was a bad decision," he muttered frantically. "We shouldn't have let it get this far, even. It's bollixing up the way we work, and..."

Q's breath was coming in short pants, and behind his hands his face was starting to look even paler.

" _Q,"_  Bond interrupted sharply. "You're panicking."

"I'm fucking  _entitled!"_ Q snapped.

Bond reached out, gently prying Q's hands away from his face.

"Come here," he said firmly.

He wound his arms around Q and twisted, ignoring Q's surprised yelp and the protest from his own healing ribs, not stopping until Q was straddling his lap. One hand at the small of Q's back and the other at the back of his head, he leaned forward, kissing Q softly, gentling him with hands and lips until Q's body finally eased. Only then did he pull back, pressing his forehead to Q's.

"I've seen you  _pull a corpse off of a bomb_ and not panic," he chided teasingly.

"Yes. Well." Q ducked his face down into Bond's neck, hiding, the frames of his glasses biting sharply into the skin. "This is scarier."

Bond's smile faded at that. He pushed his fingers into the chaotic mess of Q's hair, stroking. "Why?"

Q breathed softly for a few moments and then finally raised his head, eyes damp and serious, shining brightly even in the dim light. "Bond. Can you really be satisfied with...with whatever I can give you? If not, no matter how it might feel now..." Q's mouth twisted. "I think it's better to stop this now, before it starts."

"Before it  _starts_?" Bond shook his head in disbelief. "Q, this started a long time ago, and I'm well and truly buggered now." Zurich had only been a tipping point. Suddenly, starkly, Bond had realized exactly how much Q had come to mean to him, but their connection had been growing for months now. After too much time spent resisting the inevitable Bond had finally accepted it, his certainty growing every moment that he held Q in his arms.

"As for being satisfied...Christ, Q, I'm happy just watching telly with you. But when it comes to it I'm a greedy bastard. I'll take whatever you're comfortable giving, but no more." Bond smiled. "Besides," he teased. "I thought you had a vivid imagination."

He pulled Q an extra inch closer, grinding their bodies together briefly, his voice lowering to a deep growl. "If you don't feel like being touched, I can touch myself for you, or you for me." He nipped at Q's earlobe, feeling him shudder. "I can lick you until you fall apart underneath my mouth," he murmured hoarsely into Q's ear. "Fuck it, you can tie my hands and touch me. We can do whatever we choose, Q, and it'll be more than enough for me."

Bond felt something expanding inside him, making his breath come rapid and tight — joy and fear and tenderness, everything he had suppressed for so long suddenly breaking free. Saying the words out loud seemed to make real something Bond could barely allow himself to hope. They really could have this.

This time Q was the one who surged forward, a smothered inarticulate noise escaping him as he pressed his lips against Bond's mouth, clumsy and frantic. "I want this," he was murmuring in between the kisses. "I want this."

Bond drew his knees up, squeezing Q tightly, too tightly probably, but Q was strong and Q was brilliant and — in this moment, at least — Q was his.

"Take me home with you?" Bond asked, his voice rough with emotion.

Q smiled, soft and wide, his eyes glinting emerald-bright with happiness. "Yes."

* * *

 


	25. The Plan

* * *

They lay together on Q's bed, trading soft touches and lazy kisses. Half-drunk with exhaustion and giddy with the revelations of the evening, they murmured confessions to each other in sleep-slurred voices.

"Do you want me to call you Jasper?" Bond asked.

"God, no!" Q's look of horror was almost comical. "Please, no," he said seriously. "I was more than happy to leave Jasper behind when I left Huntercombe, and to leave Shadow behind when I joined MI6. Q is not just who I am — it's who I actually  _wanted_  to be, for once."

Bond nodded. "Good. I'd have trouble thinking of you as anything else," he answered with a smile. "Would you call me James?" He trailed his fingers down Q's neck, watching with fascination as he arched up into the touch.

"James," Q repeated, the throaty tenor of his voice sending a jolt of warmth through Bond. His brow furrowed slightly. "I thought you didn't like that...on the airplane when I said it, you seemed to — to backpedal. Said I could call you Somerset."

Bond smiled. "That's because hearing you say it got me hard as a rock. I could barely keep my lapbelt on."

"What? Honestly?" Q's surprise was adorable. "I had no idea." Slowly, a wicked smile spread across his face.  _"James,"_ he said again, his voice husky and low, and Bond groaned.

"You minx," he smiled, taking Q's mouth once again in a lingering kiss.

Q laughed into the kiss in delight. "Never been called that before," he said wryly.

"You truly have no idea what you do to me," Bond said wonderingly. "And probably half of the rest of MI6. Christ, Q, you're... _delicious_."

Q's cheeks flushed pink. "I seriously doubt that's the case, flattering though it may be."

Bond shook his head. "I will eat my dinner jacket if at least half of the minions don't sit around dreaming about getting into those abominable chequered trousers of yours..."

"James!" Q's whole face was pink now. "For goodness sakes, don't tell me something like that. I won't be able to look any of them in the eye again."

Bond couldn't help kissing that scandalized expression off Q's face. "Good. You're just for me, then."

Q hmmphed. "Well of course. It's not like you have anything to worry about on that account," he said, just the slightest edge of self-deprecation in his voice. "But let me guess — adding to your other charms, you're a possessive bastard?"

The thought was sobering to Bond. He wouldn't have thought it of himself, but there was no denying his overreaction with Genny when he thought Q was being threatened, or the voice that had growled in satisfaction in his head when Q had said that he was unable to touch anyone but him. "I suppose that I am," he said quietly. "At least when it comes to you, I'm discovering."

Q smiled. "That is somehow both endearing and disturbing.  _Do_  try not to terrify the minions any more than you have to?"

"No promises."

Q's smile faded, his eyes searching Bond's as he seemed to make up his mind about something. He reached out, running his fingertips across Bond's bristly jaw. "What happened in Zurich?" he asked quietly.

_Damn._

Bond closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather his scrambled thoughts. "I'm not even sure," he finally said. "It was all right at first. And then Genny mentioned you, and it seemed as if you might be in danger, and then I just...I  _couldn't_. I couldn't focus, all I could think about was you getting hurt, and how much you meant to me, and how I'd fucked everything up between us before I left." He closed his eyes. "I — I just choked."

"I..." Q shook his head. "I don't know what to do about that, James. It's my  _job_  to be in your ear on missions. Even more than that, if something happened to you, something I could have prevented, and I didn't because I was... _banished_  from your comms..."

"It's not like that," Bond interrupted. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. "At least, I don't think it'll be like that, Q. It hasn't been a problem before, having you in my ear, even on honeypot missions. It...it's work. It doesn't have anything to do with this." The thought was jolting. Christ, would Q want him to restrict his missions? "You know that, right?"

"I know that." Q's voice was calm and steady. "Not that it'll make me happy, listening to you with other people, any more than it makes me happy hearing you jump from sodding airplanes or take bullets or any of a number of horrible things you do on the other end of that comm. But it's more than your job, James, it's what you  _are_. Just like my job is what  _I_  am. We wouldn't be so bloody good at it otherwise."

"Christ. You're amazing," Bond said, relief washing over him.

Q's answering smile turned into an enormous yawn, making Bond chuckle. "And exhausted," Bond added. "Go to sleep."

"I don't want to, but I have to go in tomorrow." Q checked his watch and groaned. "Actually, in about six hours. I have to relieve R, and 006's mission is likely to get critical around 1100."

Bond started to pull away. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"What?" Q pushed himself up onto his elbows blearily. "You don't have to."

"We both have nightmares, and you need your sleep. We have plenty of time to work this out, Q, we don't have to do it all at once."

"Bollocks." Q grabbed a fistful of Bond's shirt, clinging tightly. "We both know there's no such thing as plenty of time, not for people like us." Q's grip was unrelenting, and Bond allowed himself to be pulled closer. "I won't hurt you again, I don't think — not if I keep my glasses on. And if I have some other reaction, I'll deal with it. If I want to — to habituate, it's best that I start now."

"All right. Take it easy." Bond settled back on the bed, pulling Q back in against his body. "I just don't want you to push yourself too much."

Q snorted. "Bollocks to that as well." He nuzzled into Bond's shoulder, seeming half-asleep already. "All those things you said," he murmured drowsily. "I want to do them all, and more."

Bond closed his eyes, enjoying the soft, trusting weight of Q against his body, feeling Q's muscles relax and his breathing deepen as he slid rapidly into sleep. He pressed a kiss to Q's temple, the mess of dark hair tickling his nose. "We will," he promised.

* * *

Bond's mobile buzzed, and he paused in the middle of his set of push-ups to check the message.

_He's on his way. — R_

Bond smiled, making a mental note to send R a dozen gourmet cupcakes tomorrow to thank her for her eager collusion in his plans. It would take Q at least twenty minutes to get home from MI6. That would give Bond more than enough time to prepare. He was absolutely determined to make up for the disastrous morning.

Bond had apparently wrapped himself around Q in the night, and they had both awoken to Q struggling frantically to free himself from Bond's weight. Q had sat on the edge of the bed, white-faced and shaking, hunkered into himself for long minutes while Bond had stood helplessly by, afraid of making things worse.

Q had spent the rest of the morning in a tight-lipped rush, looking embarrassed and weary as he hurriedly dressed for work. Bond had driven them both in to MI6 in strained silence.

Then they had split to each face their own disasters, Bond dealing with the humiliating medical tests and questions that always followed a honeypot mission while Q became embroiled in the havoc 006 was wreaking in Eritrea.

Bond had stopped into Q-Branch after being finally cleared by Medical, only to be resolutely intercepted by R. Slight as she was, he could see over the top of her head that Q was obviously engrossed in multiple data streams, his fingers flying across two different keyboards. R firmly informed Bond that Q would be hours still, and had left instructions for Bond to go home without him.

Bond had watched Q for a few extra moments. His movements were as quick and sharp as his voice was calm and steady. He guided 006 through his mission with easy competence, despite the stress of the morning and what was doubtless a raging hangover. The Branch buzzed around him but everyone seemed to instinctively avoid Q's personal space, leaving him isolated in front of his standing desk — stiff-backed and slender, alone even in the crowd.

_Not anymore,_ Bond had thought. The morning had been a setback, but Q wasn't the only one with a vivid imagination.

"R," Bond had said. "Do me a favor, won't you...?"

* * *

Bond heard the scrape of the iron gate and smiled. Q was right on time. The front door creaked open and Q's messenger bag thunked as he dropped it in the entryway.

"James? I'm finally home, although God knows that Trevelyan left half of Asmara in flames...James?"

"In here," Bond called out.

"Oh." He heard Q's soft footsteps, pausing outside the bathroom door.

"Come on in, Q."

"I can wait —" Q's voice trailed off. "You haven't managed to get yourself shot again, have you?" he asked suspiciously.

"Just come in, Q," he said, trying to sound stern despite the smile in his voice.

It seemed like deja-vu, watching Q peek around the corner of the doorframe, all shaggy hair and wide grey-green eyes.

"Oh," he breathed, lips parted in surprise.  _"Oh."_

With a wolfish smile Bond tilted his head back, blowing a stream of smoke at the ceiling, the bathwater sloshing warmly around him.

Q laughed with delight. "You're a madman, do you know that?" He took a few steps closer. His mouth curved in a captivating smile, his eyes still wide as he took in the length of Bond's naked body, barely obscured by the iridescent sheen of bath oil in the water. "I won't even get stroppy with you about smoking." His eyes continued to rake over Bond, lingering on the bare arm stretched over the edge of the bathtub, skimming shyly over the length of his tanned body. "Do you plan to recreate all my photos, or is this a special occasion?"

Bond stubbed out the cigarette on the saucer he had pressed into service as an ashtray, taking a sip of Scotch and letting the flavors mix on his tongue. He wasn't shy by any stretch of the imagination, but a little Dutch courage never went amiss. This all felt different somehow, with Q.

"I thought we could get started on that list," he said, setting the glass of Scotch down with a clink.

"Hmmm?" Q took a long moment to process Bond's words, apparently mesmerized by the pattern of scars on his chest. Bond saw the second the penny dropped, Q's eyes snapping back up to his.  _I can touch myself for you, or you for me_ , Bond had said.

_"Oh,"_  Q said again, his voice soft and shocked. "You mean — you would do that...for me?"

Bond simply smiled in answer. "Come closer," he purred.

Q moved closer as if drawn by a magnet, until finally he dropped to his knees on the bathmat.

"James," he said, his voice hushed and reverent. He reached out, tenderly dragging his fingertips along Bond's stubbled jaw, sending little prickles of pleasure down Bond's sensitized skin.

Bond turned his head, placing a kiss into the palm of Q's hand. His eyes stayed steady on Q's as he traced his own damp hand down his throat and then further down his chest, teasing softly over his nipples, watching Q's beautiful eyes track every movement of his hand.

Q licked his lips, pink tongue flickering out wetly, and Bond had to bite back his groan. Christ, the man was lovely.

"I think about you, you know," Bond said, his voice low and husky as he trailed his own fingers down his abdomen, feeling the muscles tense and twitch. He raked his fingers through the dense hair at his groin, running his callused palm over his inner thighs, teasing them both.

"When I touch myself. When I make myself come. It's you that I'm thinking about." Q made another soft, shocked sound and Bond couldn't help himself, finally sliding his hand over his cock, closing his eyes briefly at the jolt of pleasure.

"Jesus  _fuck_ ," Q whispered, and Bond couldn't help smiling. Q cursed so rarely, it was a sign of how truly affected he was. Bond was halfway there himself. The anticipation of waiting for Q like this had been erotic enough, and now having the stormy tumult of Q's eyes fixed on him, that pink tongue flickering out in fascination...Bond groaned, stroking himself a little harder, a little faster, his hand slick with bath oil.

Q's fingers wound into the hair at the nape of Bond's neck, tentative at first and then tugging more firmly as Bond leaned into the touch. "Christ, Q," he whispered. His head fell back, his body arching up into his fist. He felt like an offering, naked and exposed, giving himself over to Q for both of their pleasure.

Q growled and then his mouth was on Bond's, silky lips and warm slick tongue. Bond tightened his hand on his cock, letting Q guide the kiss. Q's mouth was luscious, the kiss slow and voluptuous, Q only pulling free when they were both frantically panting for breath. Q rested his forehead against Bond's temple, his breath unsteady as he whispered into Bond's ear. "Tell me."

"Oh, fucking hell," Bond rasped. "Christ, Q the things I want to do to you...the things I think about." His hand moved faster, sleek and wet over his aching cock. "I want to make a mess of you. I want to find out what you taste like, the sounds you make when I lick every inch of you until you come apart underneath my mouth. I want to see what your eyes look like when you watch me take your cock in my mouth, when you first feel my fingers in your pretty arse, when you slide inside of me for the first time..."

"Oh God." Q's eyes were dark with arousal, his pale skin flushed from his cheeks all the way down his neck. He leaned in again, sucking Bond's earlobe into his mouth. Bond tilted his head, offering up his throat as Q licked a path over the salty skin.

"Q...fucking hell," Bond said hoarsely, grunting in surprise as Q sucked, swift and stinging, right over the throbbing pulse point.

Bond's cock was twitching now, insistent and greedy, need tightening in his belly as he fucked his fist in short hard strokes. He couldn't help closing his eyes against the pleasure, trying to hold out. He felt Q move behind him, his breath ghosting over the nape of Bond's neck. Q nestled his chin into the lee of Bond's shoulder, watching Bond's hand move quick and desperate over his rigid cock.

Q hummed with pleasure into Bond's ear, and Bond almost came as heard the clink of Q's belt against the bathtub as Q opened his own trousers. Bond bit his lip, grasping the base of his cock hard to hold himself back, not wanting it to be over yet.

"God, Q. Yes.  _Please."_  Bond reached out blindly, capturing Q's right hand, pulling it up. He sucked two fingers into his mouth and then, driven by irresistible impulse, nipped the soft pad of flesh at the base of Q's thumb. Q cried out, his hand trembling in Bond's grip. Bond reached for the bottle of lemongrass bath oil, drizzling a small warm puddle of it into Q's palm before releasing his hand.

"Oh fuck.  _James,"_ Q breathed. Bond heard the hitch in Q's breath as he took himself in hand. Q pressed his forehead hard into the curve of Bond's neck, his breath coming in short, harsh pants, the frame of his glasses sharp against Bond's skin. Q's chest pressed against Bond from behind, left arm wrapping around to plunge under the surface of the bath, uncaring of the water that soaked his sleeve to the elbow.

Bond jerked and hissed at the feel of Q's fingers, rubbing his nipple almost inquiringly before roaming across his chest, little currents of sensation shooting straight to Bond's cock at every wet brush of Q's deft fingertips.

The air was hot and humid, thick with the scent of sex and lemongrass, quiet except for the harsh rasp of their breathing. The water sloshed over them both as Bond surged frantically, uncontrolled and desperate, the sight and feel of Q's pale hand on his skin driving him near to madness.

Q pressed his mouth against the back of Bond's neck, muffling a high whine against the skin there. His left arm tightened convulsively around Bond's chest, all wiry strength, his shoulder working rhythmically as he stroked himself, matching Bond's frantic pace.

"God, Q. Go...go on. That's it, love," Bond praised, hardly knowing what he was saying.

Q responded with a choked sob. "Oh god, oh god," he was chanting, a breathy mantra against Bond's skin. "Oh god.  _James."_

That was all it took. Bond felt the pleasure curling through him, a honey-thick rush starting at the base of his spine, pooling in his belly. He shoved hard, stroking himself firm and fast and  _just there_ , imagining Q's hand on his body, Q's mouth swallowing him down, Q's body tight and pale and hot all around him, and it didn't even matter what of that they could do because Q was here with him and Q was bloody perfect and Q was bloody  _his_...

He came with a shout, his vision whiting out as the rush of pleasure crashed through him — blinding pulses, sharp and sweet for endless moments, his hips stuttering as he stroked himself through it. He sucked in a harsh breath and then let it out, feeling loose and sated, almost light-headed with the force of his release.

Q keened against Bond's skin, high and needy. Bond reached up, his arm feeling heavy and slow, delving his wet hand into that gorgeous chaos of hair, feeling Q grind his forehead into Bond's neck in desperation. "That's it, love," Bond whispered, his voice husky. "Go on, Q. Come for me."

The words seemed to be enough, Q's left arm crushing Bond against him as he shuddered, his body rocking convulsively with silent gasps. God, Bond wanted to see it next time, wanted to watch Q's face — wanted to see him as he knelt, knees spread, chest shuddering as he spilled into his own hand.

Finally Q subsided, draped bonelessly over Bond's shoulders, his chest heaving and his forehead pressed damply against the skin of Bond's neck.

They both caught their breath, Bond's fingers still stroking soothingly through Q's hair. Finally Bond twisted, turning his head so he could look at Q. Q's eyes were closed, his dark lashes lush against his pinkened cheeks. As Bond pressed a gentle, almost chaste kiss to his mouth Q's eyes opened, the grey-green depths looking soft and dreamy. His mouth curved, his smile luminous, and Bond felt an unnamed tightness in his chest at the simple joy in Q's expression.

Bond turned, kneeling fully, pulling Q into his arms. Q clung to him tightly, careless of the wet shirt between them. Bond inhaled Q's scent, warm and clean and rich, listening to the thump of his own heart. Finally he pulled back, reaching for a dry flannel, wetting it in the bathwater.

"May I?" He felt strangely tentative again. Q's eyes were serious as he nodded. Bond slowly unbuttoned Q's shirt, pushing the damp and clingy fabric off his shoulders, revealing the pale torso. The flat of his hand buffered by the damp flannel, he traced a path down Q's chest, watching as Q's eyes closed in pleasure.

Bond wet the flannel again and stood, water streaming off him in rivulets as he looped an arm around Q, urging him to his feet as well. Q held his trousers up, still gaping open, for a moment of hesitation before letting them drop. With downcast eyes he skimmed out of his pants and socks as well, finally standing shyly before Bond, long and lithe and fully naked.

Bond kissed him again, quick and chaste, keeping his eyes on Q's face as he guided the flannel down over the narrow chest and taut belly. Q's breath escaped in a soft sigh as Bond gently ran the cloth over Q's groin and thighs, feeling his prick soft and vulnerable beneath the nubbly texture of the fabric. It was quiet and intimate, this little caring ritual — something Bond would have never even thought of doing with his other lovers. With Q, though, it felt natural. More than natural —  _necessary_.

Q smiled drowsily as Bond handed him a towel, and then wrapped one around his own waist.

"Food," Bond decided. "And then sleep."

Q's smile faltered a bit. "I'm sorry about this morning."

Bond stepped out of the tub, resisting the urge to pull Q close again. "Nothing to be sorry about, Q. We'll sort it out. I'll put a pile of pillows between us. You'll invent something brilliant that wakes me five minutes before you. However we do it, we'll work it out somehow."

Q's brilliant eyes grew distant, and Bond could almost hear his mind start to whir. "A watchband with a built-in electromyogram could gauge our relative sleep cycles..."

Bond chuckled. "Pizza and telly first. Then you can tinker all you want."

Q smiled sheepishly, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "All right." His mouth quirked in a wicked smile. "You need your rest, after all. If I remember correctly there were quite a few items on that list of yours..."

Christ.  _If you don't feel like being touched, I can touch myself for you, or you for me,_ he had said.  _I can lick you until you fall apart underneath my mouth. Fuck it, you can tie my hands and touch me._ Bond remembered every word, and it seemed as if Q did as well. His heart sped up just thinking of it.

"Minx," he growled again, shaking his head, Q's delighted laugh following him out of the bathroom.

* * *

 


	26. The Morning

[Author's Note:  Sorry for the late update...smut always takes longer, and combined with real life demands and writer's block this chapter was quite a struggle.  Enjoy the unadulterated smuttiness!]

[Even more exciting -- this fic has [ART](http://adreaminglamb.tumblr.com/image/63498163556)!  Beautiful beautiful [ART](http://adreaminglamb.tumblr.com/image/63498163556), from the beautiful, beautiful, [adreaminglamb](http://adreaminglamb.tumblr.com).  Thanks, love!]

* * *

“James,” Q purred, running his hands up the taut muscles of Bond’s triceps and forearms to where his fingers wrapped under the edge of the headboard.  Bond groaned, flexing his body, seeking the pressure of Q’s weight on his aching erection, but Q stubbornly rode out the movement, still straddling Bond’s upper thighs.  “Don’t let go,” Q admonished, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. 

“You could just tie me,” Bond growled.  

Q sat back, his grey-green eyes suddenly serious.   _‘No,”_ he said emphatically.  He paused the teasing movements of his fingers up and down Bond’s chest, tilting his head as he searched Bond’s face.  “Unless...”  He hesitated, his brow furrowed.  “Is that something you want?” 

Bond swallowed.  “No,” he admitted.  He would grit his teeth and tolerate it if that was what Q needed or enjoyed, but it was an occupational hazard — Bond had been captured and tortured so frequently that the erotic potential of being restrained was absolutely nil. 

Q nodded, the sharp focus in his expression easing.  “I thought not, which means you are an idiot for even suggesting it,” he rebuked crisply. 

Bond opened his mouth, likely to protest, and immediately forgot what he planned to say as Q captured his lips in a soft, swift kiss, his bare belly brushing teasingly over Bond’s rigid length. 

“Besides,” Q said, straightening up with the mischievous glint back in his eyes.  “I quite like the idea of testing your self-restraint.” 

“Imp,” Bond grumbled, rolling his hips again.  Q’s exceptional arse — clad only in the softest of pajama bottoms — was nestled firmly just a few inches from where Bond wanted it most, and it was driving Bond crazy. 

Q hummed thoughtfully, tracing his hands across Bond’s chest once again.  Bond watched Q’s brilliant eyes take in every scar.  He could practically see Q mentally matching each one to the relevant incident from Bond’s history in his file, but Q said nothing.  He simply rubbed his fingers over the bullet wounds, tracing the knife scars with the back of his thumbnail.  With his soft pink mouth, he tenderly licked and nipped at random marks and divots of which Bond himself had forgotten the origin.  Each touch was gentle and soothing, as if Q were placing his own mark over the evidence of past pain, eradicating the dark memories with every warm touch. 

It made Bond feel...adored.  Cherished, even.  Having Q’s rapt attention, that intense focus, devoted entirely to his body.  Bond felt the joy of it humming underneath his skin, sensitizing him to every brush of Q’s deft fingertips.

“You’re beautiful,” Q breathed against the skin of Bond’s collarbone.  Bond hadn’t even realized that he had closed his eyes until he snapped them open again at Q’s words.  It was no easy flattery, Q’s voice had been hoarse with sincerity.  He met Bond’s startled eyes and his cheeks flushed pinker, as if he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.   

Q shrugged self-consciously, thin shoulders dappled by the warm morning sunlight.  “I have trouble believing, sometimes, that you’re actually...here.”  He rested his palm over Bond's heart as if seeking proof of his existence, his eyes focused on some distant point as he felt the thumping beat through the skin of his palm. 

Bond wanted to delve both hands into that riot of Q’s hair and devour him, but he had promised not to touch.  His fingers tightened on the headboard again, and he swallowed thickly.  “I’m here,” he said. 

Q’s eyes focused again and he smiled, soft and warm.  He slid further down Bond’s torso, licking at the mark of Moneypenny’s bullet across his ribs.  Bond tried to smother his groan, watching that pink tongue trace over his skin, so close to where his cock strained and leaked against his belly.   

Q’s hand slid further down.  Bond saw a shadow of pain pass over Q’s face as he warmly cupped Bond’s bollocks, and knew he was thinking of what Le Chiffre had done. 

“It’s fine, Q,” he found himself saying.  “It’s...Christ, it’s so _good_ ,” he rasped nonsensically as Q’s long fingers caressed and massaged, chasing the painful memory away with pure sensation. 

Finally, _finally_ , Q slid his hand up, caressing Bond’s cock in a long sensuous stroke from root to tip.  Bond bucked reflexively into the touch, his breath rasping in his chest.   

A shaft of sunlight lit Q’s eyes, lightening them to a pale clear celadon as he straddled Bond’s thighs again, pinning him to the bed.  Q’s arousal was obvious in this position, the soft cotton of his pajama bottoms hiding nothing.  It made Bond shudder, a jolt of pure lust sizzling through him from his fingers to his toes, to know that Q had become so hard simply from touching him.  Bond wanted to touch him back, wanted to trace the length of Q’s cock where it distended the threadbare cotton, and his knuckles whitened with the pressure of holding back. 

“Please,” he said instead, his voice gone gravelly with lust.  Q’s breath was quick and shallow now as well.  As Bond watched, rapt, Q ran his pale fingers up Bond’s cock again, this time circling his thumb on the head, spreading the slickness he discovered there.  Bond cried out with pleasure, his head falling back, his arms straining.  He opened his eyes just in time to see Q suck that thumb into his pink mouth, his face serenely contemplative as he tasted Bond. 

“Oh, bloody _fuck_ ,” Bond growled.  Q probably wasn’t even trying to be seductive and he was absolutely _wrecking_ Bond — turning him inside out, making him writhe and beg for those beautiful hands on his body again.  Bond knew he wasn’t going to last much longer, and god, he needed more.   

“Q — I want to see you.” 

Q seemed to hesitate, shy about baring himself to Bond in the full morning sunlight.   

“ _Please_ ,” Bond said again.  It should be humbling to beg like this but he was too far gone to care.  If he couldn’t touch Q he needed to see him, needed to feel that slender body naked against him.   

The desperation in Bond’s voice seemed to dispel Q’s uncertainty.  He slid off the bed in one fluid motion, hesitating for just a moment before skimming his pajama bottoms off his body to puddle on the floor.  His eyelashes dipped down, shading his eyes behind the slightly-fogged lenses of his glasses as Bond’s gaze hungrily roamed his body.   

There was something so entirely, erotically _naked_ about Q.  The people Bond was used to fucking all treated their bodies as tools — tanned and plucked, toned and surgically sculpted, displayed with pride as someone might display a Breitlinger watch or an Hermes bag.   

Q seemed to treat his body as something slightly unfamiliar to him — awkward and somewhat surprising.  The way he revealed it — slowly, shyly — made Bond crave every part of it.  The long, pale limbs, the narrow-ribbed chest, the slight softness of his belly.  Just the sight of the trail of soft, dark hair leading from Q's navel had Bond gritting his teeth, his very fingers tingling with helpless arousal.   

Seeing Q stand naked in the pale wash of morning sunlight made something twist in Bond’s chest, a paroxysm of feeling so intense that it physically hurt.  Q’s pale skin was warmed to the barest gold by the soft sunlight, the darkness of a mole drawing Bond’s eye down the graceful sweep of his neck to his chest.  Bond’s eye skimmed down to Q’s cock, dusky and stiff, standing up from the thatch of dark hair.  Q’s hand moved nervously as if to cover himself, and the vulnerability of it sent another pang straight to Bond’s heart.  Q was completely without artifice; everything he felt could be read in his face and body. 

“Don’t do that,” Bond said gently.  “You’re gorgeous.” 

Q’s eyes darted up to Bond’s, as if gauging his sincerity, and widened at what he seemed to see there.  His hand fell away, his chest swelling as he inhaled sharply.  “James,” he said on a broken breath. 

“Come here,” Bond growled, the headboard creaking as his hands clenched with the frustrated need to grab Q and pull him closer. 

Q tumbled back onto the bed, pressing his body the length of Bond’s, his eager mouth capturing Bond’s lips in a deep, clinging kiss.  Both of them gasped as Q slotted his cock in next to Bond’s, instinctively rolling his hips. 

“Q,” Bond groaned, planting one foot on the mattress so he could press back.  They strained against each other, Bond’s mind shorting out with pleasure as Q writhed above him.  It was so good and yet just short of enough, and after a few moments Bond felt Q’s teeth sharp against his shoulder as Q gritted out a plaintive noise against his sweaty skin.

“Lube,” Bond managed breathlessly.  “Please, love.  Slick up and then hold us both.”  Q rutted against Bond a few more frantic times and then he was diving for the side table, impatient fingers fumbling on the bottle.   

He slicked his hand and then settled on Bond again somewhat uncertainly, propped up on one elbow, hair falling forward over his flushed forehead as he looked down at them both.  “Like thi — oh, _Jesus_ ,” he said as he closed his fingers around them both. 

The noise Bond made would have been embarrassing if he could be arsed to care, low and guttural and needy.  He moved with Q, both of them pushing into the circle of Q’s fist, and bloody _hell_ that was so good that Bond was dangerously close to the edge already. 

He threw his head back, drinking in every sensation — the rich warm smell of Q’s skin, the huff of his breath against Bond’s neck, the slender body flexing and straining above him.  Q’s grip was just right, the combined friction of his fingers and his cock visceral and filthy, and Bond had to look down again, watching them both push slickly through Q’s long pale fingers. 

Bond pulled his eyes back up to Q’s face.  He looked utterly abandoned — his cheeks flushed pink, fringe stuck damply to his forehead, mouth gasping open as he heaved mindlessly against Bond. 

“Christ,” Bond said.  “Fuck, Q, come on, _come on_...” 

Q was so close, Bond could tell.  He was biting his lip, making anguished little smothered sounds with every push of his body.  “Let it go, love,” Bond said roughly.  “Christ, I want to hear you...let me hear you...” 

Q’s movements stuttered as he froze for a moment, his whole body shaking with tension.  He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, shaking his head frantically.  “I can’t,” he whispered, his voice sounding suddenly panicked.  “I’m sorry...” 

 _Oh, fuck._  “It’s okay, Q.  It’s okay, I’m sorry.  Don’t stop, love, please don’t stop...” 

Q’s head bowed in relief, his movements resuming as he nuzzled gratefully into Bond’s neck.  Bond strained against him, pressing his lips wherever he could reach, drowning in a confusion of remorse and tenderness and incendiary lust.   

Q was gasping against Bond’s skin, making desperate broken noises that Bond felt more than heard. 

“Come on, Q,” he rasped.  “I’ve got you.  Fucking Christ...gorgeous...” 

As Bond watched Q’s head lifted.  His eyes flew open, wide and shocked.  A low, anguished moan escaped his gritted teeth, and then his hips jerked wildly, warmth pulsing over them both. 

“Oh, _Jesus Christ,_ that’s it.  That’s lovely,” Bond gritted out, unable to tear his eyes from Q’s expression as Q convulsed over him, face suffused with utter bliss.  Finally Q’s movements slowed, his breath gasping in his chest as he fell to the side. 

“James,” he said, his voice slurred with pleasure, his body still shaking with intermittent tremors.   

Bond wanted more than anything to wrap his arms around Q, to gather him in close and hold him there forever.  But he didn’t dare, and so he gripped the bottom of the headboard so tightly that it cut shallowly into his palm, his heart throbbing.  His voice was the only outlet for what he was feeling, the words raspy with the emotion that was choking him.  “Q,” he found himself repeating helplessly, both endearment and entreaty.   _“Q.”_  

Q shivered once more, and then his slippery hand tightened on Bond’s cock again, stroking firm and quick.  The shock of it threw Bond headlong into his own orgasm, bucking and writhing, release searing through him in endless shuddering pulses, shaking him down to his very bones. 

By the time his mind cleared Q had crawled back on top of him in a soft warm heap, careless of the mess between them. 

Bond pried his hands off the headboard, fingers stinging as blood rushed back in, strained shoulders protesting.  He tangled his hands in the sheets, not sure if he could touch Q.  As if reading his uncertainty, Q reached down his arms, snagging both of Bond’s hands and pulling them up to rest on his back.   

Bond sighed in contentment, running his hands up and down Q’s spine, enjoying the boneless weight of him.  Q arched up into his touch for a moment, flexing his spine, and then seemed to melt, his body fitting into every angle and curve of Bond’s own frame. 

“Cat,” Bond accused with amusement as Q hummed contentedly into his neck.  Bond’s hand wandered down to Q’s arse, giving it a fond squeeze and smiling at Q’s little squeak of surprise. 

Q merely snuggled in impossibly closer.  They lay quietly as the sweat dried on their bodies, Bond listening to the thump of his own heart and basking in the warmth of the sunlight and the even warmer sensation of Q pressed the length of his body. Christ, but Q turned him inside out like no one else.  This feeling of closeness — of simple, unadulterated _happiness_ — was something Bond had never experienced.  It made him want to grab hold of it with both hands, afraid that it could slip away at any moment. 

After awhile Q twitched a few times and then made a little snuffling, snoring noise.  Bond smiled.  Q needed more sleep, he had been up for almost thirty hours straight over the last few days.  Bond was realizing more and more what it took to have Q in his ear, whenever he needed him, regardless of how long his mission lasted.  When an operative was in danger, Q worked himself to exhaustion until the mission was complete. 

With a pang of regret Bond held Q tightly and then gently rolled Q to the side, managing to peel their bodies apart without waking him.  As much as he would love to close his eyes again and fall asleep with the warmth of Q on top of him, Q might wake badly. 

The thought brought to mind Q’s panicked reaction when Bond had asked to hear him come, and Bond’s quiet contentment faded instantly.  Christ, he was an idiot for even mentioning it.  Of course after years of furtive wanks in the Offender’s Institution Q would be conditioned to silence, but Bond hadn’t put it together until it was too late.  He shook his head, furious with himself for missing it.  Even when he was trying to be careful, there were still minefields everywhere. 

Bond looked down at Q.  He looked utterly debauched — the thick dark waves of his hair in chaos, his lips kiss-swollen, his cheeks rubbed red with stubble-burn.  The press of his face into the pillow had pulled his glasses askew, his body sprawled pale and naked across the sheets.   

Looking at him, Bond resolved to be better, smarter.  Q’s issues were considerable, as were Bond’s, but what they had was worth any amount of effort.  With that thought he gave in to the urge to briefly smooth that riotous hair, before pulling the duvet gently up to cover Q and padding to the shower.  

 

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[Please review!] 


	27. The Night

Insomnia.   

It didn’t happen often.  Bond usually had a soldier’s knack of falling asleep whenever and wherever he could, in the same way that he could spring out of the deepest sleep fully awake and alert at the slightest unexpected noise or movement.  When insomnia struck, however, it was insidious and unrelenting, having no respect for mission status or time zone. 

Now Bond lay in bed next to Q, listening to his soft, even breathing.  A long bolster pillow separated them, a hopefully temporary measure they had adopted to keep Bond from instinctively smothering Q in his sleep and triggering his panic.  Funny — Bond had never found himself to be particularly cuddly with his other lovers.  As it turned out, however, for some reason he instinctively gravitated closer to Q in the night, wrapping around him as if trying to surround and protect him with his own body.  It probably had some deep subconscious meaning, but for now it was simply a bloody nuisance for them both.

Even with the barrier in place, however, Q was compelled to have some tactile contact with James as he slept.  Right now Q was snuggled up to the bolster, one long arm thrown over it so that his palm could rest flat on Bond’s chest.  It was part of the contradiction of Q — as much as he was in danger of becoming overwhelmed by physical contact, he craved it nonetheless. 

Bond concentrated on the warmth of that hand on his chest, turning his head to watch Q sleep.  Q in sleep was mesmerizing — the strange quick grace of his slender body now still, his brilliant intriguing mind finally at rest.  When awake, Q projected strength and competence, but asleep like this he was all youth and fragile vulnerability.  The night was clear, and starlight shone down through the skylight, highlighting Q’s ethereal pale skin, casting his hair and eyelashes into dusky velvet shadow.  He was so fucking beautiful it hurt just to look at him. 

He remembered the way Q had looked earlier that evening, laughing about some quip Bond had made.  Bond had already forgotten what he had said, but the image of Q was crystal-clear.  The way he laughed — sudden and abrupt, as if it surprised even himself.  The way he looked at Bond, eyes shining, crinkled with amusement at the corners.  He looked at Bond as if he were something new and beautiful and miraculous, instead of the jaded and broken-down old agent that he was.  Even the recollection of it made Bond's breath hitch, some unnamed emotion burning in his chest until it felt like he was choking with it.

Bond used to think that caring for a woman was like having an extra heart — an additional soft point of vulnerability, difficult to protect.  What Bond felt for Q went so far beyond that.  Q _was_ his heart now, everything bright and beautiful in his life.  If something happened to Q, Bond did not think that he could survive it.  Which he recognized as being pathetic, overly dramatic, and a completely unfair burden to put on Q, but true nonetheless.  

Even lying still like this, Bond could feel his breath growing increasingly quick and shallow, his gut roiling with some nameless, unfocused panic.  Bond had always been prone to this — after all, the black dog of depression nipped at his heels after every mission — but having Q in his life seemed to have added an extra, razor-sharp edge to every emotion.  At times he wished for that frozen numbness back, the dull blankness that had settled in his heart after Vesper.  For every daytime moment of joy with Q in his arms came the bitter nighttime fear clawing at his chest.  He had something to lose now.  

His nerves scraped raw by the third sleepless night in a row, Bond’s thoughts now turned from nebulous, imagined future threats to Q and toward the nameless and faceless individuals who had hurt the vulnerable young man Q had been.  When he closed his eyes, sleep just beyond his reach, the visions of what Q might have endured rose from the shadows like half-formed demons, intent on tormenting him.  Behind his closed eyelids Bond saw strange hands holding Q down; his ear against the pillow heard the echo of Q’s muffled cries.  Q had never spoken further of exactly what had occurred at Huntercombe, and in the dark hours of another sleepless night Bond’s traitorous mind — all too familiar with every iteration and nuance of psychological and sexual terrorism — filled in the gaps. 

Finally Bond gave up on sleep, sliding carefully out from underneath Q’s palm, making his way to the kitchen.  He would prefer to down Scotch until his mind turned numb, but he knew from experience that would only feed the darkness growing within him.  He settled for putting the kettle on, digging up some brandy from one of Q’s cabinets and pouring a measure into his teacup.   

He didn’t know how long he had been standing over the electric kettle, watching the bubbles roil, before Q’s soft footsteps jolted him out of his dark thoughts.  He tried to hide some of the tension in his posture.  He doubted he was successful, given how Q wound his arms around Bond’s waist, pressing his forehead between Bond’s shoulderblades in silent sympathy for a moment before reaching for a teacup of his own. 

Bond rubbed a hand over his face.  “You should go back to sleep, Q.  No need for both of us to be up.”   

As if he hadn’t spoken, Q fixed his own tea and settled on the sofa, raising an expectant eyebrow at Bond.  Finally Bond gave into the inevitable.  He poured his own tea, adding a little more brandy for good measure, and joined him. 

They sipped in silence for awhile, shoulders pressed companionably close.  Eventually Q took the empty cup out of Bond’s hand, setting both aside before snuggling in under Bond’s arm.   

Bond rested his chin on Q’s shaggy head, breathing in his scent and closeness. 

“It’s more than just insomnia, isn’t it?” Q asked gently.  “Something’s on your mind.” 

Bond could feel his own jaw tic with tension.  He wouldn’t put this on Q.  He _couldn’t_.  Q had been through enough without Bond dragging it all up again just to set his own uncertainties to rest. 

The soft, sleepy curve of Q’s body suddenly stiffened.  “Is it not enough...what we do?” he asked hesitantly.  “You can tell me if it isn’t, James.  You don’t have to — to _coddle_ me...” 

“Christ, Q,” Bond interrupted roughly, squeezing Q against his side.  “That’s not it at all.” 

He could feel Q relax incrementally, but his voice was still sharp.  “What then?  It’s obviously not about the job, your last mission couldn’t have gone better.” 

This time the silence was oppressive.  Finally Bond couldn’t stand it anymore.  He slid out of Q’s embrace and stood up, moving restlessly to the kitchen again.  He refilled the kettle and plugged it in, conscious of how flimsy of an excuse it seemed.   

“Go to bed, Q,” he said without turning around.  “I’ll be in later.”  He heard Q come closer, hesitating at the archway to the kitchen.  Bond stared stubbornly straight ahead at the cabinet until he heard Q’s soft footsteps turn around and go back into the bedroom.

* * *

The sky was lightening to grey by the time Bond made his way wearily back to the bedroom.  Q was curled with his back to the door, his eyes closed, but Bond could see the bobbing of his throat as he swallowed and knew he was awake. 

Christ, he hadn’t thought it was possible to feel worse, but he did.  He lay down on what had become his side of the bed, unsure if he was allowed to reach over the distance between them. 

He finally took in a deep breath, making up his mind.  His voice was low and raspy when he finally asked the question that had been weighing on his mind.

“Have you ever spoken about it?” 

Q’s body went unnaturally still for a moment, before he slowly uncurled, rolling to his back.  He stared up at the ceiling, his red-rimmed eyes sending a pang through Bond’s chest. 

“You mean Huntercombe,” Q said flatly.  It wasn’t a question.   

“Yes,” Bond said anyway. 

Q swallowed thickly.  “Is that what you’re hoping?  That if I talk about it I’ll — I’ll just _get over_ it somehow, and all my — my _issues_ will just disappear?”  His voice curdled with bitterness.  “Are you hoping we’ll have a little chat about it all and then I’ll magically become some kind of — some kind of _porn star_ in your bed, like all those women who moan and squeal over the comms when you fuck them?” 

“ _Goddammit_ , Q!” Bond barked.  Q flinched and Bond lowered his voice to a growl.  “Don’t fucking put words in my mouth, especially when you’re dead wrong.  I don’t want any damn thing in my bed except you, exactly as you are.” 

Q turned his head finally, wide grey-green eyes blinking behind the lenses of his glasses, his expression so achingly vulnerable that Bond’s anger sputtered out as quickly as it had flared.  

“You’re perfect, Q,” he said gently.  “I only _wish_ I was thinking about helping you.  It would be less fucking selfish than the truth.” 

“Which is what exactly?”  Q rolled fully onto his side, facing Bond across the barrier of the bolster pillow.  His face was intent now, his eyes searching Bond’s expression. 

Bond tried to put his tangled motives into some coherent form.  “I know you don’t want to talk about it,” he finally ground out.  “I don’t want to make you, to put you through thinking about it again.  But I can’t help — I can’t stop imagining it.  Wondering how they hurt you.  It’s bloody intrusive of me, I know, and selfish to even think about asking, but not knowing — Q, it’s eating me up inside, not to know.” 

Q blinked again, slowly.  “You’re asking for — for _you_ ,” he said, surprise clear in his voice. 

Bond shrugged.  “I touch you sometimes, and I wonder — is this one of the things they did?” he admitted bitterly.   

Q was silent.  Bond draped his forearm over his eyes.  “I’m sorry, Q.  Just forget it.  I’m sorry I brought it up.” 

“I’m not.”  Q’s voice was steady and firm. 

Bond lifted his arm, looking at Q in surprise.  Q pushed the bolster pillow to the floor, scooting in closer.  Bond gathered him in with a sigh of relief. 

“I never really thought about that part of it,” Q conceded softly.  “What it would be like for you, not knowing.  If I can make it better for you, I want to.  It’s obviously affecting us both.” 

“The last thing I want to do is cause you more pain,” Bond rasped.   

“You won’t.  You _don’t,_ ” Q said decisively.  “James, I’ve — I’ve never been so happy.  It’s almost — almost _nerve-wracking_ , how happy you make me.” 

Bond couldn’t help huffing with laughter.  “I thought I was the only one who felt that way.  Shit-scared of how happy I am right now.”   

“No,” Q said solemnly.  “Not the only one.” 

Bond pulled Q even closer and Q came willingly, nuzzling into Bond’s shoulder.  He reached out with his right hand, taking Bond’s fingers in his, rubbing an absent-minded circle in the palm of Bond’s hand.    
  
“Right, then,” he said.  He took a deep breath, and let it out with just the slightest hitch.  “The first time, it was three of them.  They caught me in the hallway, on the way to canteen...”

* * *

 


	28. The Afternoon

Bond lay sprawled out on the sofa, watching a football game with the sound off.  Q was sitting at the far end of the sofa, his laptop balanced on Bond’s shins, speaking into his wireless headset. 

“Yes, go ahead and check, R, I’ll hold.” 

Bond wiggled his legs, making the laptop jitter.  “You finally have a day off, Q.  Stop working.” 

“Ten more minutes,” Q said absently, anchoring the laptop with one hand while he tapped away with the other. 

“You said that half an hour ago.” 

Q hummed absently, typing with both hands again.

Bond leaned forward.  “I know this can wait until tomorrow.  Ten minutes, and then I take matters into my own hands,” he warned darkly. 

Q’s eyes flicked up and his mouth quirked in a hint of a smile at Bond’s expression, but he simply moved his laptop to the arm of the sofa and continued typing.  Bond checked his watch, noting the time. 

Ten minutes later, Q was still deep in discussion with R about some database issue. 

“Did you use the integrity command?  Okay, so we know that the headers are correct, and the tables are functioning and consistent.  You’ve tried an ancestor check, I presume?...” 

Bond sat up, carefully setting aside his beer.  With his feet, he slowly pushed back the coffee table, skidding it across the plush carpet. 

Q flicked him a curious glance, but his eyes were immediately drawn back to his screen.  “Check the...yes, in the directory partition head — do the correct number of cursors exist?” 

Bond slid closer to Q on the sofa.  Q shot him another glance, this time slightly wary, watching as Bond reached out to run a soothing hand up and down Q’s neck. 

“Mmmm,” Q hummed, closing his eyes as Bond began easing the tension out of his neck and shoulders.  “No, R — I just said, er — hmmm...if every object has property metadata vector...” 

Bond leaned in, his right hand still kneading Q’s neck.  He nipped at Q’s left earlobe, the one without the headset, as his left hand slid around Q’s right side. 

“What —” Q yelped.  He cleared his throat.  “What did the semantic database analysis reveal?”  Q wound his left hand in Bond’s hair, fixing his gaze on him with an unreadable expression in his bright green eyes.  Bond waited, but, rather than pushing him away, Q’s mouth quirked with just a hint of a smile again before he turned his head back to his laptop, his hand guiding Bond’s head back to his ear. 

Bond grinned, licking and nipping his way from Q’s earlobe down his throat as his left hand smoothed over Q’s side, untucking his shirt from his trousers and sliding inside.  Q’s skin was warm and silky under Bond’s callused hand, the bare expanse of his throat soft and tender underneath Bond’s lips. 

“Mmmm...”  Q lolled his head back, his eyes closing for a moment in pleasure before he blinked them open again, looking somewhat dazed.  “I think — I think maybe...”  Bond gently pulled on Q’s left knee, spreading his thighs, and in one fluid motion slid down to kneel between Q’s feet.  

Q’s grey-green eyes grew wide, his lips parting in surprise.  “I think maybe I’ll have to take a look at it myself tomorrow,” he stuttered into the phone as Bond traced both hands up Q’s inner thighs.  “I’ll — ah! — I’ll see you then,” he said in a rush, stumbling over the words as Bond pressed the heel of his hand over Q’s groin, feeling his cock twitch to life through the material of his trousers and pants.  Bond rubbed firmly, making Q bite his lip to stifle his whimper. 

Bond took pity on him, halting the movement of his hand for a moment.  “Yes, all right, R...Q signing off,” Q said hurriedly, fumbling the headset off and closing his laptop, shoving it onto the side table. 

Bond smiled up at him wickedly, pulling his own t-shirt off over his head and throwing it aside.  “I had a feeling you could tie things up with the proper motivation,” he teased.  Q’s eyes were enormous, his button-down shirt half-untucked, his breathing rapid and uneven.   

“I — are you going to? — oh, bloody _fuck!_ ” Q said, as Bond leaned forward, mouthing along the length of his cock through his trousers.  Q’s heels skidded on the carpet and Bond anchored him with both hands on his narrow hips, pulling him up against his mouth, spreading his legs wider with his shoulders. 

Q made a smothered, almost pained noise and Bond pulled back, rubbing him through his trousers again.  “This okay?” he asked.   

“Yes...oh _god_ , yes...”   

Bond had suspected as much.  Things had been easier between them now that Bond had a better idea of what might trigger Q, and Bond knew that this would be a completely novel experience for him.  “Good,” he said with satisfaction, opening the flies of Q’s trousers. 

He tugged down the waistband and Q obediently lifted his hips.  Bond pulled Q’s trousers to mid-thigh, leaving his pants still on.  Once again he mouthed over the length of Q’s cock, this time through the thin material of his pants, taking extra time to lick carefully and thoroughly over the wet spot forming through the thin fabric. 

“Ah — ah, Christ,” Q breathed.  Bond glanced up at him.  His head was thrown back, his eyes closed, cheeks flushed pink already, hands clenching for purchase on the leather sofa cushions.  He was absolutely beautiful, and just the sight of him made Bond growl deep and low as he nosed back along Q’s cock.  Q smelled warm and rich and musky, and Bond nuzzled closer, inhaling deeply before huffing the warm air out against the damp fabric, making Q squirm. 

“Please,” Q groaned, his hips pushing up in small shivery little movements as if he were trying to hold himself back and just couldn’t quite manage it.  Bond loved this moment, when Q’s inherent restraint started to crack.  He leaned in, swirling his tongue over the head, feeling the soft cotton begin to warm and cling.  Finally he sucked, savoring the taste of wet cotton and Q on his tongue.  Q suddenly bucked underneath him, his whole body arching with strain, knuckles whitening where he desperately grasped the sofa cushions.   

“Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” he ground out, and Bond felt the sudden warm wet pulsing through the barrier of the fabric.  He sucked steadily, stroking Q with his palm through the fabric, easing him through it. 

Q’s hands unclenched from the sofa cushions.  He fell back, his hands covering his face, an even more vivid flush of pink spreading up his neck.  “Sorry...god, sorry,” he groaned. 

“Hmmmm...” Bond hummed his satisfaction against Q’s soft skin.  He felt the irresistible urge to take him fully into his mouth, sucking him clean, but knew it would probably be too much for Q right now.  Instead he nuzzled along Q’s waist, slowly undoing the bottom few shirt buttons.  “We’re not nearly done yet,” he rumbled against the skin of his belly. 

“What?”  Q jerked his head up, looking stunned.  Bond smiled wickedly.  Giving in to impulse, he tugged down on one side of the waistband of Q’s pants, licking a slow wet circle into the delicious hollow of the hipbone he bared.  Q twitched underneath him, another startled sound escaping him.   

“Entirely expected,” Bond assured Q.  “In fact, you lasted a good thirty seconds longer than I did the first time somebody had their mouth anywhere near my cock.” 

“What — “ Q broke off with a ragged breath as Bond licked another slow circle into the tender concavity of his other hipbone.  “What are you going to do now?” 

Bond carefully tugged Q’s pants the rest of the way, wiping him gently with them before throwing them aside.  He took a moment to admire Q in nothing but his shirt, before cupping Q’s slightly knobbly knee in his right hand, kissing slowly up his thigh.   

“I thought,” he said, placing a final kiss, “that we could snog lazily for awhile...” He slid up on the sofa next to Q, before pulling Q over to straddle his lap.  “...And then give it another go,” he finished, flicking open the rest of Q’s buttons one by one. 

Q braced his hands against Bond’s chest, slightly off-balance in his new position astride Bond’s thighs.  Bond looked down, enjoying the sight of those slender fingers, pale against his tanned, scarred chest. 

He leaned in, capturing Q’s soft mouth, kissing him through his confusion until he felt Q fall into the kiss and start to respond eagerly.  Bond wound his fingers in that delicious mop of hair, savoring Q’s mouth slowly and tenderly.  He lost himself in the kiss for endless moments, feeling only the slide of Q’s tongue against his, the scrape of his even teeth, the taste of him so warm and sweet.  Christ, this man and what he did to Bond — it was unfathomable. 

Bond finally pulled back, breathing raggedly.  Q’s eyes were still closed, his face dreamy, his lips kiss-swollen.  He was almost unbearably beautiful.  The button-down shirt was open now the whole length of Q’s body and Bond spread it wider, leaving it on Q’s shoulders to tease them both, skimming his hands over the flat dusky nipples as he pushed the fabric aside.   

He slid his hands inside the open halves of the shirt, running his palms up Q’s body — his soft waist, the jut of his narrow ribs — wrapping around to skim the smooth planes of his shoulder blades.  The muscles of Q’s back were wiry and strong, with a lean, spare elegance that made Bond ache with want.  Everywhere Bond looked Q’s skin seemed to glow — pale thighs splayed against the dark denim of Bond’s jeans, the rosy flush of his chest fading to alabaster in the long stripe of skin exposed along his front, ending in the dark thatch of curls.  

Bond couldn’t help sliding his hands down Q’s chest to his belly, making him shiver, before delving into those curls.  He petted and caressed Q’s soft cock before sliding his fingers further down to cup his bollocks, rolling them in his palm, making Q blush and squirm. 

 _“Christ_ ,” Bond breathed, leaning in to lick at Q’s nipples, hardening them into pebbled nubs as Q made soft little noises of entreaty.  Bond’s hands were on Q’s thighs now and he couldn’t help himself, skimming his palms up those lean flanks to take a firm hold on Q’s arse, grinding up into his soft, yielding warmth.   

Q made another broken noise and Bond slumped back against the sofa cushions, repentant.  His cock was a rock-hard ridge under the rough denim, and Q was no doubt still sensitive.  “Sorry, love,” he gritted out, but Q was already shaking his head. 

“I _liked_ it, you idiot,” he panted, and then he was taking a firm grip on the back of the sofa on each side of Bond’s head.  He pushed his hips up against Bond’s, awkwardly at first and then finding a rhythm, his narrow hips undulating fluidly as he pushed his rapidly-hardening cock against the ridge in Bond’s jeans, and god that was good, so _very_ good. 

Q leaned in, his mouth pressing into Bond’s neck.  Bond felt the scrape of his teeth as Q moaned against his skin, and then Q was sucking at Bond’s neck, clumsy in his enthusiasm.  Bond felt the sting.  He doubted Q had intended it, but Bond knew from experience that it would mark, and god but the thought of it almost sent him over. 

“Bloody hell,” Bond ground out.  “Bloody fucking _hell_ , Q.”  He strained up against Q, allowing himself a final last moment of mind-numbing pleasure, before he grasped Q’s narrow hips tightly in both hands, stilling him. 

“I had a _plan_ , dammit,” he growled. 

“Sod your plan,” Q growled back in return, stirring his hips impatiently, pushing against Bond’s grasp so hard that he would likely bruise later. 

Bond clenched his jaw, gathering up every ounce of willpower, before sliding Q firmly off his lap. 

“What — “  

Bond leaned in, interrupting Q’s incipient pout with a ravenous kiss, greedily licking his way in before gentling the kiss, coaxing sweet little noises from Q’s mouth into his. 

He pulled back with a shuddering gasp.  “This is what I want to do for you, Q,” he said, sliding down between Q’s feet again as his hand caressed up Q’s length.  He was fully hard again, moisture gathering where Bond swiped his thumb.   

Q made another strangled noise, pleasure and frustration warring on his face.  “Why?”  

Bond pressed his forehead against Q’s thigh, not even sure himself.  He wanted to give this experience to Q, that was part of it, but there was more.  Something in Bond needed this too, needed things to be one-sided this time.  He needed to worship Q, to show him with hands and mouth everything that he could not, for some reason, say aloud. 

“Just let me,” he said, inarticulate in his need.  “Please, Q — _let me.”_

“I — “  Q shuddered again as Bond stroked slowly up and down his length.  “Just _wait_.”  Bond froze as Q wrapped his hand around Bond’s wrist, holding him still for a moment, his brow furrowed with concern.  “Oh god, James, I — I can’t, um... _reciprocate_.  Not yet, I don’t think.” 

Bond relaxed.  “I don’t need you to,” Bond replied huskily.  “Just...this is for you, Q.”

Q searched Bond’s face for a long moment.  Finally he nodded, his eyes growing warm as his grip on Bond’s wrist became a caress.  He slowly slumped back against the sofa cushions, spreading his legs a little wider in silent invitation.  His palm skimmed from Bond’s wrist to the back of his hand, ghosting the movement as Bond started to stroke him again slowly.  His eyes were watching intently, flicking wide-eyed between Bond’s face and the hand working his cock. 

Bond leaned in, licking a long slow stripe up Q’s cock, enjoying the smothered groan that elicited.  He took his time — learning what made Q twitch and moan, what made his breath turn ragged and the lean muscles of his pale thighs tense.   

This was so unlike the other times Bond had done this — there was no trace of calculation to this seduction.  Bond wanted nothing more than to share in this pleasure with Q, to watch Q fall apart underneath Bond’s hands and mouth, knowing that he was the only one allowed this.  The only one to hear the desperate little noises Q made as he struggled not to buck up into Bond’s mouth.  The only one to see Q as he fully lost himself, spreading his shaking legs in unabashed greed, his toes curling in helpless abandon.  The only one to make Q’s eyes finally go wide, to make him bite down hard on his palm to stifle his cry as he came hard, his lean body writhing under Bond’s hand, his cock pulsing in the wet heat of Bond’s mouth. 

Christ, Bond could almost feel his pleasure as if it were his own.  He suckled Q greedily, wanting to make it last, lapping at him through the twitches and aftershocks.  Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer — he fumbled at his own flies, pressing his forehead against Q’s thigh as he worked himself with his spit-slick hand. 

“No.”  Q’s rough voice startled him.  He looked up, still stroking himself frantically. 

“Up here,” Q ordered.  “Straddle me.  I want to see.” 

The sound that escaped Bond’s throat was almost inhuman, a high shocked whine that only made Q’s eyes darken further. 

Bond lurched to his feet, stripping off his jeans, and settled over Q, his knees sinking into the soft leather on either side of Q’s slim hips.   

“Yes,” Q said, his voice low and covetous, as Bond started to stroke himself ruthlessly.  “Hard and fast now.  Let me see it.” 

Bond was grunting with each stroke, every breath harsh in his throat.  He could feel the pleasure, delayed for too long, finally gathering hot and thick at the base of his spine.  “Q,” he panted.  “Fuck, Q...” 

 _“James,”_ Q murmured.  He looked drunk with lust, his eyes hooded and dark, his mouth parted as he watched Bond intently.  And his voice, that bloody _voice..._  

Q’s hands skimmed up the backs of Bond’s thighs, those long deft fingers digging into the muscles just hard enough to kick Bond’s arousal impossibly higher.  Q threw his head back, exposing the long pale line of his throat, his chest arching underneath Bond’s body in open invitation. 

“Yes,” he said again. _“_ On me.   _Now.”_    

Q’s voice was low and rough, the familiar posh tones from endless missions — the voice that steadied Bond, that he trusted like no other — now with an extra edge.   _Q’s_ voice, drunk with pleasure, asking for _this..._ the thought of it seared down Bond’s spine, pleasure so keen it bordered on pain.  Bond curled in over Q’s body, fucking hard into his fist in a last few desperate strokes, tension torquing within him until finally it snapped.  Pleasure bloomed, hot and thick, starting at the base of his spine and shuddering through his whole body as he started to come, streaking across Q’s chest and belly.  The sight of it was impossibly arousing, unbearably intimate.  Bond cried out with the last few spasms and Q groaned and shuddered underneath him as if the pleasure was his as well. 

Finally Bond subsided, gasping for breath, his head hanging heavy on his neck.  He barely had the presence of mind to keep from collapsing his weight on to Q, tipping aside instead to sprawl next to him, stunned and sated. 

“Bloody hell,” he breathed in wonder.  Q hummed his agreement, clambering up onto his knees, turning toward Bond.  He traced three long fingers through the streaks on his chest, shivering a little at his own touch.   

Bond clumsily captured Q’s wandering hand and pulled it towards him.  He held Q’s gaze as he sucked Q’s slick fingers into his mouth, running his tongue over and between them, tasting himself on the whorls of Q’s fingertips as Q’s eyes fluttered closed. 

Q leaned in, resting his forehead against Bond’s shoulder, breath warm and soft against Bond’s damp skin.  Bond gave Q’s fingertips a final kiss before letting their hands fall, pressing Q’s palm flat against his chest, Bond’s heart thumping against their layered hands.   

They sat in silence for awhile, catching their breath, Bond’s mind drowsily drifting. 

He felt Q take in a deeper breath, his face still hidden in Bond’s shoulder.  “That’s...”  His voice was low and ragged, and he cleared his throat and started again.  “That’s something I’ve thought about.  Something I’ve wanted from you for a long time.” 

 _Bloody hell._  Bond’s exhausted cock gave a sad twitch despite himself at the thought of it — Q, fantasising about Bond touching himself.  Q, in his secret imaginings, offering up his body as Bond’s canvas. 

Bond traced his right hand through Q’s hair, offering up his own confession.  “Your voice,” he said, a growl lurking in his words at just the memory of it.  He shook his head in amusement, his fingers tightening in Q’s hair.  “Your fucking _voice_.”

He could feel Q smile against his skin.  And then Q, that little minx, slowly and deliberately put his teeth to Bond, a firm press of a bite that had Bond twitching again.  “My voice, hmmm?  That has all _kinds_ of potential,” Q murmured mischievously. 

Bond let his head fall back against the sofa, marveling at this new facet of Q.   _That_ _fucking_ _voice and that clever, clever mind. Christ, but he was in for it._

* * *

 


	29. The Disclosure

“Come on, 007.  Shift your lazy arse.” 

Q’s voice was crisp as ever, but even over his own thundering heartbeat and the rattle of gunfire Bond could hear the faint tremor underneath.

“Enough with the sweet talk, Q,” Bond panted.  “I’m on the job.” 

“Then save your breath you ridiculous bastard and _move_.”   

Bond smiled fiercely.  They were probably crossing the line that would pass as playful banter to the minions, but it was worth it to hear irritation blotting out the thin thread of fear in Q’s voice. 

Bond made it to the top of the stairwell, crashing out of the roof access door.   

“Good, I’ve got eyes on you again,” Q said, his voice sounding calmer now that he could see what was going on.  “I can blow the facility as soon as you’re clear.  Fifteen metres to your left, only five metres to the adjoining roof.  A fourth former could do it.”   

If Bond had the energy he would have rolled his eyes.  He pelted across the asphalt rooftop, taking a running jump and sailing across the gap between the buildings.  His knees crunched as he landed hard on the other side, dropping into a roll that jolted his breath from his lungs. 

Chest still squeezed tight, Bond forced himself to his feet.  

“That’s it,” Q said.  “Your eleven o’clock, twelve metres, there’s a fire escape to street level...bloody _fuck!_ ” 

The roof access door of the building behind him clanged again.  Bond wheeled around, drawing his gun just as his pursuer leveled a handheld rocket-propelled grenade launcher directly at him. 

Bond was knocked off his feet as the world went up in flames and then went black.

* * *

Bond woke up slowly, conscious first of the air rasping into his lungs through a throat that felt stuffed with sawdust.  Everything hurt, a dull throbbing pain that made the idea of taking the next breath almost intolerable.  He did it anyway, wrestling with the pain, forcing himself closer to consciousness.   

He automatically began taking stock, twitching each of his limbs in turn.  He felt a sudden flood of panic as he realized he couldn’t feel his right arm, the final image of the RPG and a wall of fire blooming behind his eyelids.  Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.  His eyelids scraped like sandpaper as he forced them open, squinting against the harsh fluorescent light. 

He turned his head and the panic suddenly subsided.  His arm was just asleep, circulation no doubt cut off by the weight of Q’s head nestled into Bond’s right shoulder.  Q’s slender form was crammed into the medical bed with him, his right arm and leg wrapped around Bond’s body.  Bond let out a slow, shaky breath of relief.   

He dipped his head, burying his face in the utter mess of Q’s hair, breathing him in.  He smelled warm and soft — lemongrass and bergamot and Q’s own underlying scent.  He smelled like _home_ , and a wave of tenderness made Bond blink rapidly, his throat closing up even further for a moment before he swallowed thickly. 

Q stirred, murmuring something sleepily, and then suddenly jolted upright.  He flailed for a moment, arm clanging against the bedrail, and Bond couldn’t stifle a groan as every sore muscle in his body seemed to be jostled. 

Q seemed to focus at the sound, his beautiful eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses.  “Oh.  Oh, bugger.  Sorry.” 

He made as if to climb out of the bed and Bond reached out a hand prickling with pins-and-needles to grasp a fistful of his button-down. 

“Stay,” he rasped. 

Q’s smile was incandescent.  He leaned down, gently kissing Bond’s lips before pulling back, his smile now the more familiar sarcastic quirk. 

“Morning breath times a thousand,” he teased, before his eyes turned focused, assessing.  “I’m going to raise the bed a little so you can drink something,” he instructed.  “They didn’t want to give you painkillers until you’ve been cleared by Neuro, but that should only take a moment.  Hang on.” 

Q leaned gingerly over Bond, pressing the call button looped to the opposite bedrail, and then snagged a cup of water from the bedside tray, slotting a straw in before holding it closer to Bond’s mouth. 

Bond irritably batted at the hand that was trying to feed him the straw, taking the cup out of Q’s hands.  God, that first sip felt incredible, the icy water soothing his torn, raw throat despite the pain that spiked as he swallowed.   

“Smoke and dust inhalation,” Q explained.  He was resting up on one elbow now, his hair a chaotic mess around his pale face, dark stubble shadowing his jaw.  He looked delicious.  “Also a concussion, of course,” Q went on.  “Multiple contusions and surface lacerations, but no fractures this time.  You’ll be under observation for a few more hours, but we should be able to go home...” Q checked his watch.  “Later tonight.” 

 _Home_.  Bond smiled at the sound of that, feeling the skin crack open over a cut on his lip. 

“Don’t smile,” Q instructed.  “Don’t move, don’t strain anything...”  His voice broke.  “Oh god, James, I’m so sorry.” 

“What?”  Bond studied Q blearily.   

Q’s eyes shut briefly as he took in a deep breath, as if gathering courage, before the grey-green eyes met Bond’s again, concerned but direct.   

“I made the call,” Q said, voice tight with nerves.  “I blew the facility.  I knew you weren’t completely clear but I...I didn’t know what else to do.  That was an RPG-29 he had, loaded with a tandem-charge high explosive anti-tank warhead capable of penetrating explosive reactive armor and composite armor, if he had managed to fire...” 

Bond lifted a weighty arm, lack of coordination causing him to smudge his thumb messily over Q’s bottom lip to halt the frantic rush of words.  

“It was the right call,” he managed, before his eyes seemed to close wearily against his will, his arm dropping heavily to the bed again.

He heard Q’s shaky exhale, and then the warmth as Q curled back in against Bond’s side.  

Bond heard a gentle knock at the door, and forced his eyes open as a woman in a white labcoat entered, looking entirely unsurprised by Q’s presence in his bed.  As she sanitized her hands, Q unselfconsciously dropped the bed rail and moved to the bedside chair, taking Bond’s hand as if unable to be fully separated from him. 

The woman introduced herself as Bond’s neurologist.  She looked tired, darker purple smudges tinging the ebony skin under her eyes, and she stifled a yawn as she put Bond  through the familiar paces of answering questions and checking his pupil reactivity, followed by a motor and sensory exam that Bond knew by heart at this point. 

“As your file indicates, 007, you seem to have a remarkably hard head,” she commented with a twinkle in her sharp hazel eyes.  “Your CT was clear.  Typically you would be held overnight for observation, but your young man here assures me that he is capable of the task.  I’ll give you the first dose of painkillers now, but please get something in your stomach before the next dose, and of course come in right away if there is any increasing headache, vomiting, or the like.  I’m sure you know the routine.  Any questions?” 

Bond shook his head and immediately regretted it, rasping a “No,” instead and then gratefully swallowing the pills proffered to him in the paper cup.  

“Give me another hour or two to get some more fluids in you and process your discharge, and you can be on your way,” she rattled off in her no-nonsense way.  Her tired face brightened a bit as she shot a final glance in Bond’s direction.  “You listen to your young man here.  He has promised me that he won’t let you overtax yourself, and that is the only reason I’m discharging you so soon.  Understood?” 

“Understood,” Bond repeated obediently, but she was already leaving the room. 

Bond rested back, turning his head to look at Q.  “Get back in here with me,” he instructed, and Q slid back into the bed with alacrity, raising the rail again to secure himself as he snuggled back in against Bond’s side. 

“So, you’re my young man are you?”  Bond tried for a joking tone, but apparently some of his worry bled into his voice, because Q lifted his head again, looking down at Bond with his brow furrowed in concern. 

“I — do you mind?  I’m sorry, I suppose it was pretty obvious when you were brought in that my concern was more than...Quartermasterly?” 

Bond wrapped a hand around the nape of Q’s neck, moving his thumb in a soothing circle.  “I don’t mind.  I suppose we’ll have to face Mallory sooner or later.” 

“Mallory?” Q’s brow furrowed even further, his eyes searching Bond’s face for a moment.  “Oh!” he said, as if coming to a realization.  To Bond’s surprise he looked suddenly uncertain, sitting up fully, his teeth worrying at his lip.  “Um,” he said.  “Er...” 

“What am I missing?” Bond asked, his trepidation entirely overshadowed by how startlingly adorable Q looked when he was apparently flummoxed. 

“I.  Er.  Um, I — I filed the Relationship Disclosure paperwork the day after you returned from Zurich, as per procedure.  Am I — am I to understand that you did not?” 

It took a few moments for Q's words to filter through Bond's muzzy brain.  “There’s paperwork?” Bond repeated incredulously.  “To say that we’re shagging?”  

“Well, all interdepartmental relationships must be disclosed.  They told us that at Orientation.  I didn’t think it would be an issue at the time, of course, but...”  Q trailed off hesitantly.  “Are you upset?  I should have asked, I suppose.” 

It may have been the painkillers kicking in, but Bond was hard-pressed not to giggle.  “Bloody _Orientation_ ,” he repeated with a giddy smile.  “You were a renegade hacker, illegally detained by MI6 and blackmailed into working here, and you paid attention during bloody _Orientation_.”  This time he couldn’t help it, something remarkably close to a giggle escaping him.  “I’ll wager you took _notes_.” 

Q relaxed, his mouth quirking into a smile again.  “No need.  I have an exceptional memory.” 

“Indeed," Bond purred.  "Bring that exceptional... _memory_...back down here.”  

Q settled back in against Bond’s side.  “You can turn _anything_ into sexual innuendo,” he remarked, a smile in his voice. 

“I try.” 

They rested in silence for awhile before Q spoke again, his voice serious once more.  “I should have asked you.  If you wanted to keep this...a secret, I mean.” 

“I’d shout it from the rooftops if I could,” Bond said drowsily.  “As long as you’re able to stay my Quartermaster.” 

Q nodded against Bond’s shoulder.  “Mallory quizzed me a bit, but I assured him that regardless of our relationship outcome, I would do my utmost to ensure your safe return, as I do for all of my operatives.” 

Q raised his head again, his eyes clear and solemn.  “The only thing I could not assure him was that I would sacrifice your life for the sake of a mission.  It was my contention that such a situation was a false dichotomy — that with good mission planning and tactical support we should be able to obviate any situation in which your life would need to be sacrificed for mission success.” 

Bond snorted, and Q shrugged sheepishly.  “It was wishful thinking, I know, and Mallory skewered me for it.  But we agreed that under such circumstances, R has the authority to take the comms and I will stand down.”  Q’s mouth turned down unhappily.  “It was a formality.  We both know, in any event, that in such a situation you’re likely to do whatever you damn well please.” 

Bond felt something twist in his chest — not at the thought of his own death, he had long ago come to terms with that eventuality — but at the thought of what Q would have to endure in such circumstances. 

He tried to gather his fuzzy thoughts, pulling with effort a coherent response from the tangle of fatigue and painkillers and unaccustomed emotion.  “We both know the risks of what I do, Q — what we both do.  If civilian lives are on the line, I will always do my duty.”  He smoothed his thumb over Q’s stubbled cheek.  “But I promise you that if it occurs, it will be a last resort.”  He felt drawn in, mesmerized by the grey-green depths of Q’s eyes, the truth spilling out of him in uncharacteristic candor.  “I will fight with my last breath to come back to you.  I might face death, but I don’t seek it.  Not anymore.” 

A warm, soft smile spread across Q’s face.  He placed his palm over Bond’s hand on his cheek, drawing it down to place a kiss in the center.  Then he settled down again, gingerly holding Bond. 

Bond breathed in Q’s warmth and closeness, trying to think of some other reassurance he could give Q.  “Never forget,” he finally said.  “Resurrection is my specialty.” 

He could feel Q smile against his shoulder.  “And impossibilities are mine.  Together we’ll get you to retirement, and sod anyone who says differently.” 

Bond chuckled. _Retirement._  Almost three years ago he had voluntarily left the service, for the illusion of Vesper’s love.  A year ago, the idea of retirement would have sent shivers down his spine, a fate worse than death.  Now...now, the notion was almost appealing.   

He kissed Q on the head and let his eyes close.  He let himself fall back into a doze, thinking of a life with Q — measured not in months or years, but in decades. 

* * *

 


	30. The Challenge

The woman was utterly repellent — loud and brash, her barking laugh setting Bond’s teeth on edge like fingernails on a chalkboard.  Bond smiled at her as if she were fascinating. 

He leaned in closer, toying with the coaster at her elbow in order to deliberately draw her attention to his hands.  Underneath her expensive perfume she smelled sharp and acrid — who used hairspray anymore these days? — as if the bitterness inside her were leaking out through her very pores.  Her eyes, as they looked at Bond, were calculating and vindictive. 

“So, Mr. Reynolds.  You would, no doubt, like an introduction to my husband?” 

Bond carefully kept all surprise from his face, maintaining a warm and genuine smile. 

“I can’t imagine what you mean.  Usually I do everything possible to avoid meeting the husbands of the women I find fascinating.”  He let his smile turn wicked, his fingertips gently brushing the back of her hand.  “Unless he is _very_ understanding, and might want to be included?” 

“Bullshit.”  She blew a caustic mouthful of smoke in Bond’s face, deliberately stubbing out her cigarette on the mahogany bar despite the ashtray several inches to her left.  “You don’t want to fuck me,” she said baldly, her eyes flat and dead as a shark’s.  “Maybe ten years ago, but now the only reason men like you...” she wrinkled her nose disparagingly “...make nice to me is so they can get to my husband.  So I’ll ask you one question.  What are you offering me?” 

Bond leaned back casually against the bar, meeting her eyes directly.  “Whatever you want.” 

She looked him over predatorily.  “Your body?” Her voice dripped with condescension.  “A bit the worse for wear, isn’t it?” 

And fuck, something must have shown on his face there, because her expression suddenly turned rapacious.  “ _There_ it is,” she said gloatingly.  “Prideful, are you?  That’s what I’ll have then.  Your pride.” 

Bond could feel his jaw wanting to clench.  He kept his face carefully neutral as he nodded once.  “I have a room upstairs.”

* * *

“That _bitch_ ,” Q murmured into his earpiece, brief but heartfelt, before he once again lapsed into silence.  Bond took care to smother his smile, conscious of all the reflective surfaces in the lift, but his heart lightened momentarily.   

This was going to be bad, and Bond gave himself a moment to think of Q as he had last seen him — sprawled across their bed in the thin dawn light.  The spill of his hair across the pillow, the lush pinkness of his mouth, the vulnerable strip of belly exposed where his t-shirt had rucked up in his sleep.  Bond luxuriated in the memory for just a moment, and then as the lift dinged for their floor he began the careful and familiar process of detachment that he would need to carry him through the next few hours. 

He placed a courteous hand on the woman’s lower back, guiding her toward the room.  As the door clicked softly behind them he drew her closer, leaning in seductively. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, pushing him away with a heavily-beringed hand.  She stepped further into the room, assessing it imperiously, before turning to cast another scathing glance at Bond. 

“You men.  Always thinking the world begins and ends with your cocks.  It’s pathetic.” 

Bond watched her carefully for cues as to how she wanted him to play this.  Pleading?  Penitent?  She quite clearly wanted to humiliate him, but somehow he didn’t think that just calling him a dirty boy while they fucked was what she was after. 

“Drink?” he suggested, playing for time. 

She set her clutch down on the dresser.  “I’ll serve myself.  You get your kit off.” 

She didn’t cast him so much as a glance while she poured herself a gin and tonic, so Bond forewent any attempts at seduction and simply stripped himself, quickly and efficiently.  He stood straight, hands relaxed at his side, as she pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down, legs primly crossed, sipping her drink as she considered him.  Her glance was anything but sexual, her eyes spending no more time assessing his cock than any other part of him. 

“Everyone underestimates a beautiful woman, Mr. Reynolds — or whatever your real name is — and I used to be a beautiful woman.”  Her eyes watched him closely as if to see if he would protest her use of the past tense, and when he remained silent she nodded her approval.  “Now you’re getting it.”  She took another careful sip of her gin and tonic. 

“Bernard was married when I met him, of course.  I got rid of her in less than a week’s time.  Now I’m past my prime — just as you are, sorry to say.”  Her voice didn’t sound sorry at all, laced instead with bitter satisfaction.  “Do you know why I’m still the wife of the largest arms dealer in the Western Hemisphere and not buried in an unmarked grave somewhere so that Bernard can move on to Arm Candy #3?” 

Bond waited a moment to ensure the question wasn’t hypothetical before answering.  “Because you’re clever,” he said matter-of-factly. 

She set her drink down on the table with a clink.  “Because I’m _clever_ ,” she concurred.  “Do you think you’re the first man who has tried to play me this _week_ , even?  Everyone wants something from Bernard.  His money.  His connections.  His political clout.  And all they ever want from me is the way in.” 

She stood up, walking within a pace of Bond, looking him up and down.  “Short-sighted.  Bernard plays his power games because I allow it, and he keeps me alive because I give him no other choice.  If I were a man, I would be the biggest arms dealer in _both_ hemispheres, and instead here I am, killing time at a bar, entertaining myself with pathetic sycophants like you.” 

“Are you?”  Her head snapped up at Bond’s words, her sharp blue eyes narrowing.  “Entertained?” Bond finished mildly.

She barked a sharp laugh.  “Getting there.”

“I could kneel,” Bond suggested. 

“If I want you kneeling, I’ll make you,” her voice was like the crack of a whip.  “Do you think this will be that easy?  That I’ll have you kneel, and crawl, and you’ll oblige me with some show of submission, and underneath it all you’ll be as smug as ever?”  Bond tilted his head deferentially.  “Underestimating me again,” she spat at him.  “Stand up straight.” 

Bond straightened his body into parade rest as she circled behind him, poking an occasional sharp-nailed finger at this or the other spot.  “Look at what you’ve done to this body.  Scarred and damaged.  And you thought to offer me _this_?” 

Bond felt his blood start to speed, humiliation thick in his throat.  She ended her slow inspection standing in front of him once more.  He could see her eyes taking in with satisfaction the slight flush of anger he could not control. 

“How many women have you fucked with this body?  A hundred?  A thousand?”  She watched his expression carefully.  “I’ll wager you don’t remember even a dozen of them clearly.  But you’ll remember _me_ ,” she finished gloatingly. 

She turned her back, exposing a neck that Bond would dearly love to throttle, and poured herself another gin and tonic before settling back in the chair.  “Get on the bed,” she instructed.  “Sit back and spread your legs."

Bond obeyed with an inward sigh.  She sipped her drink, eyeing him.  “Touch yourself,” she ordered harshly.  “If you can make yourself come, I’ll introduce you tomorrow.” 

Bond leaned back against the headboard, starting to stroke his cock lazily, flicking through his mental catalogue of arousing images.  Too many of those images seemed to feature Q lately, and Bond reached further back, focusing on nameless women from his past.  The curve of a buttock here, the sweep of golden hair there... 

“What do you fancy yourself?”  The women’s odious voice cut through his concentration.  “A playboy?  A businessman?  Look at you now.  Broken-down.  Pathetic.  You’re nothing but a sad old _whore_.” 

Goddammit.  Bond closed his eyes, trying to maintain his flagging erection.  There had been that woman in Nagoya, tattooed from collarbone to calves... 

“Open your damn eyes.  Look at me, you filthy whore.   _I’m_ the one you have to make happy.” 

Bond forced his eyes open.  He felt the flush of humiliation creeping up his neck, heating his face.  The woman’s cold flat eyes looked back at him, and a low growl of frustration escaped him as his cock softened in his hand. 

“I’ve been thinking that I want to try sucking you off,” Q’s crisp, posh voice suddenly remarked over the earpiece. 

Bond sucked in a startled breath, his cock twitching back to life as he started stroking himself again. 

“We’re on a private comm line now, by the way, and I’m in my office.  That woman is absolutely tedious, and so you’re going to listen to me instead.” 

Bond let out a shaky breath of relief, letting himself imagine it.  Q in his office, perhaps even lying back on his leather couch, his cardigan slightly mussed.  The sick aftertaste of humiliation faded at the image, a low hum of arousal heating his bloodstream instead. 

“As I was saying,” Q mused.  “The idea of having you in my mouth has been remarkably appealing lately.  You’ve been so very patient, and I know that you could be patient for a little while longer, letting me explore.” 

Oh, bloody hell.  The thought of it, Q’s inquiring approach to all things sexual, applied to _that_.  Bond was fully hard now, his hand skimming over his rigid length, root to tip.   

“You’re so very thick when you’re hard, but I wouldn’t try to take it all at once.  That would be overly ambitious.  I would start, perhaps, just licking a little, around the tip.  I already know that I like the taste of you, and I’ve noticed how you like it, when I flick my thumb over the head.  Do that now.”  Bond flicked his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the moisture there, groaning aloud.  The woman’s sharp eyes were still on him, her lips still spewing vitriol from time to time, but all Bond could hear was Q’s posh voice in his ear. 

“That’s it,” Q said calmly.  “Imagine how much better that will feel when it’s my tongue, so warm and wet.  I know you adore my tongue, James, I see you watching me sometimes, hoping it will appear.  Do you really think I make a such a show of licking ice cream for anyone else?” 

Christ, the cheeky little minx.  Bond could see it clearly, the last time he had bought Q an ice cream in Victoria Park — Q’s pink little tongue curling around the scoop of ice cream, his eyes bright and green above it, watching Bond mischievously.  He had barely managed to finish before Bond had dragged him behind a tree where they spent the next ten minutes pressed against each other, Bond’s back to the rough tree bark, trading luxurious mint-chocolate-chip flavored kisses. 

“I’ll want to keep my eyes on you, of course.  But I don’t think you’d mind that, would you?  Me watching you as I lapped at your cock, suckling a little here and there as I grew bolder.” 

 _“Christ,”_ Bond breathed.  His hand was moving more swiftly now, rough and hard over his rigid flesh, pleasure sparking with every stroke. 

Q made a pleased little sound that jolted straight down Bond’s spine.  “Your cock feels so lovely under my fingertips.  That silky skin, the delicious ridges, the pulse of your blood as you thicken.  I can only imagine that it would feel even better on my tongue.  Just letting it flutter around you a bit, maybe licking a long stripe or two to feel you jump against my lips.” 

“Bloody _hell_ ,” Bond growled.  He was rock-hard and leaking now, fisting his cock in earnest, feeling the slick slide of it down to his toes.  The idea of Q’s mouth around him — those mobile lips and that clever pink tongue... 

“Enough!”  The woman’s voice broke through his sensual haze.  He blinked, refocusing his eyes on her.  “Stop touching yourself.” 

Bond pulled his hand away with a groan, his breath coming in sharp pants. 

Her eyes were watching him sharply, two spots of color high on her cheeks.  “You’re an even filthier little slut than I imagined.  Can’t make it too easy on you, can I?  Stay hard while I finish my drink and maybe — _maybe_ — I’ll let you come.  When _I_ say.” 

“Christ, but she’s irritating,” Q’s voice interjected smoothly.  “Good thing I enjoy a challenge.  And it _would_ be a challenge, James, restraining myself.  Because once I have my mouth on you, I don’t know if I could stop with just a little.  I might just have to try taking you in deeper.  A little bit at a time, of course just seeing how much I could manage.  You would feel the urge to rock into me, to fuck my willing mouth even just a little, but I know you can hold back, difficult as it might be.  And so I can feel free to go deeper, to stretch my lips around you and try to take as much as I can.” 

And god, that voice, that beautiful posh voice and the filthy things it was saying.  Bond’s cock continued to twitch and leak as if Q’s mouth was on him right now.  He could hear Q’s equanimity unraveling a bit, his voice becoming rougher as he continued to speak softly, confidentially, into Bond’s ear. 

“You know me, James.  How eager I can be, when you make me forget myself, and I think having your cock in my mouth — so thick and full — might just make me greedy for more.  As I said, I’ve been thinking about it.” 

Bond fought against the instinct to buck his hips, seeking friction that wasn’t there.  He kept his eyes on the woman as she sipped her drink excruciatingly slowly, but saw nothing but the images Q was describing in such vivid, sensual detail.   

“I tried something the other day,” Q murmured with an air of confession.  “You’ve been gone so long, and I got lonely.  I lay in our bed, smelling you on the sheets, and I thought about sucking your cock.  Worked my way up to three fingers in my mouth, sucking hard as I brought myself off, imagining my mouth was stuffed full of your cock instead.  I quite liked it.  Do you think you would like it, James?” 

The woman knocked back the last sip of her drink and Bond felt his restraint crack.  “Please,” he breathed to Q.   _“Please.”_  

The woman’s eyes lit with triumph.  “I _knew_ I could make you beg.  Fine then.  Make yourself come.” 

Bond put his hand back on himself, stroking almost frantically, as Q’s husky voice licked at his ear and curled down his spine.  “Not for her, James.  For me.  Only for me.  Make yourself come for me.” 

“Fuck.”  Bond let the release roll through him, fucking hard into his fist as he started to shudder, careless of the mess he was making of himself as thoughts of Q warm, wet, _clever_ mouth filled his head.  Finally the last jolt passed through him and he lay back, panting, his skin buzzing pleasantly. 

“You filthy little slut,” the woman said.  “Look at the mess you’ve made of yourself.  Get dressed again.  You’re not allowed to clean up.  I want you to know that you’ve fouled yourself under your shirt.  We’ll have one more drink at the bar and I’ll introduce you to Bernard in the morning.” 

Bond let her castigating words roll right off of him.  He could hardly believe that he had let her get under his skin before.  She could say what she liked about him, but he had a gorgeous, brilliant man waiting for him at home, and right now he could think of nothing else. 

Bond dressed perfunctorily, escorting the woman courteously back down to the bar.  He had a final drink with her, watching as her movements became drunk and sloppy, her cold eyes turning glassy and morose.  He remained as solicitous as before, ignoring her every jibe and the itch of the semen drying on his own chest and belly under his shirt and jacket, thinking of nothing but Q.   

By the time he was back in the lift he was exhausted, resting back against the mirrored wall. 

“Q?” he said quietly. 

“007?” Q answered immediately, his voice crisp and professional.  They were off the private line, then. 

“Everything all right at Q-Branch tonight?” Bond asked. 

“Everything here at HQ is perfect, 007.  And with you?” 

Bond felt the last bit of tension leave his body.  “Mission proceeding as planned. Further details in the morning.  007 signing off.” 

“Good night, 007.  Q signing off.”

* * *


	31. The Restraint

[Author's Note: Sorry this update took a little longer than usual. It's super-sized, if that helps.  Huge thanks to [mygoldfishsavedmylife](http://mygoldfishsavedmylife.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, who provided the French translations.]

* * *

Bond woke up slowly, the smile spreading across his face even before he was fully aware.  Q was a soft, soothing weight draped bonelessly over half of his body, his dark mop of hair puddled on Bond’s bare chest, the edge of his glasses sharp against Bond’s upper ribs.  This was something new Q had started in recent weeks, crawling over the bolster and into Bond’s arms in the early morning, still half-asleep but aware enough to enjoy the closeness without waking in a panic.

Bond drowsily delved his fingers into that mess of hair, feeling the warmth of Q’s scalp before tracing down to the nape of Q’s neck.  Q hummed contentedly into Bond’s chest, nuzzling incrementally closer.  

 _I like waking up with you in my arms,_ Bond thought, but couldn’t quite bring himself to say out loud.   Instead he snuck his hand up under the hem of Q’s soft t-shirt, tracing his fingertips upwards over the bumps of his spine.  Bond knew Q’s wiry strength, but at times like this Q felt so fragile — so _precious_ — his bones poignantly fine and delicate under Bond’s blunt and scarred fingers.

Just a few days ago Bond had woken up alone in the smothering heat of a hotel room in Chennai, muscles seized up with stiffness and bones aching from the last desperate throes of his mission.  He had lain on the thin mattress and comforted himself with thoughts of Q like this — drowsy and pliant in his arms on the rare mornings they both had a day off and could wake up lazily.  Now he had the real thing, and he was determined to take full advantage.

Q hummed again, shifting even closer until he was fully on top of Bond.  Bond bent his knees and they both sighed as Q’s weight settled fully into the cradle of Bond’s hips.

Q skimmed his lips up Bond’s neck — barely-there kisses and the scrape of stubble — until their mouths met and clung.  They kissed languidly, still only half-awake, for long moments.  Q broke first, rocking up against Bond almost imperceptibly, his cock now a firm ridge in his pajama bottoms.  Bond smiled, skimming his hands down Q’s back to slide under his waistband.  He cupped the swell of Q’s arse to grind them together harder but controlled the pace, keeping it achingly slow.

“James,” Q mumbled plaintively against Bond’s neck.

Bond smiled.  “Patience, love.”

Q made a little huff of frustration, the lean muscles of his back shifting under Bond’s palm, but Bond was inexorable.  He wanted a slow burn, wanted Q to feel it building, hot and deep and —   _fuck_ , but that was good as Q managed to worm his hands in between them and tug down on their pajama bottoms, freeing both their cocks.

“Diabolical,” Bond growled, the first slide of bare skin against bare skin sending a shudder through him.

He could feel Q rummaging under his pillow for something, before he finally held the bottle of lube up triumphantly.  “What was that you called me again?” he teased.  His eyes were bright and green in the soft morning light, crinkles of amusement gathering at the corners.

“Diabolical _genius_ ,” Bond amended.  

Q snapped open the lid of the bottle and just as quickly Bond snatched it out of his hand, flipping it to slick his own palm instead.  “Still not letting you rush this,” he purred, capping the bottle and tossing it to the ground.

Q’s protest dissolved into a soft moan as Bond wrapped his hand around them both, slick and warm, stubbornly anchoring Q with his other arm as Q tried to push faster into Bond’s fist.

 _“James,”_ Q complained again.  Bond felt the sharp scrape of Q’s teeth over his earlobe before Q pulled back.  A flush of pink colored his cheeks.  His grey-green eyes met Bond’s, bright with mischief now, before the lids lowered and Q bit his lower lip in the way he _knew_ drove Bond insane.  

“C'est si bon, James,” Q murmured, and _god_ , it was Bond’s Achilles’ heel, hearing Q’s posh voice turn throaty and fluid when he spoke French.  Q leaned back in, placing little sucking bites up Bond’s neck.  “J'aime ta manière de faire ça.”

“ _Fuck,_ Q,” Bond groaned, his hand moving incrementally faster.  He could feel Q smile against his skin.

“J’en veux plus,” Q whispered into Bond’s ear.  “S’il te plait, James.  Plus fort maintenant.  Plus rapide.”

That bloody voice.  It seemed to curl around Bond, sending tingles down his spine.  Bond threw his head back, staring up at the cloudy sky through the skylight before his eyes closed in bliss.  It felt like heaven — having Q here in his arms, their bodies pressed close, Q’s silky voice in his ear.  Pleasure wound tighter in them both with every stroke of Bond’s hand, Q’s voice growing more frantic, rougher.  “N'arrête jamais de me toucher. Tu me rends dingue. Je te veux tellement.”

Bond growled, taking Q’s mouth again, kissing him hot and deep, sucking on that clever, clever tongue until they broke apart with a gasp.  Q was making soft little noises of entreaty with every stroke of Bond’s hand, pushing shamelessly up into his fist.

“ _S’il te plait_ , James,” he murmured frantically.  “Fais moi venir.”

Bond inhaled deeply through his nose, fighting for control.  “Easy, love,” he purred, slowing Q’s movements again.  Q was so close — lips pressed against Bond’s neck now to smother every soft little noise that was trying to escape him.  “That’s it, love,” Bond crooned.  “So good for me.”

Q made a choked, desperate little noise, shaking his head against Bond’s skin.  

Bond smiled.  “Just like this, love. I’m going to make you come, soft and slow.  Just like this.”

And he did, keeping it leisurely and languid, an indulgent slick slide of skin against skin until finally he heard Q’s sharp gasp as he tipped over the edge.  Q shuddered and then sighed, his warmth spilling between them in endless shivering pulses.  Finally his whole body relaxed, melting against Bond’s.

Bond’s own orgasm was lazy and delicious, a slow unspooling that left him breathless and lightheaded, every muscle in his body seemingly suffused with liquid warmth.  

They lay in the soft sunlight in a drowsy, spent heap as their heartbeats slowed and their breaths evened out.

“I refuse to get dressed at all today,” Bond finally murmured lazily, wiping his hand on the sheet.  

“Mmmm,” Q hummed into his neck.  “Not practical.  Alec is coming by this afternoon with the last few boxes.”

With tacit understanding Bond had been slowly moving his few possessions — primarily consisting of the contents of his wardrobe — to Q’s house.  When Alec managed to burn his most recent flat down in a fit of boredom (he claimed it was accidental, but Bond knew him too well to believe it) Bond had given in to the inevitable and turned over the lease to his flat.  Neither Bond nor Q had actually acknowledged the fact that they were officially living together, but Bond had come back from his last mission to find a wardrobe of his very own in the bedroom, and somehow everything Bond brought over found a place of honor in Q’s house.

“Alec has seen worse.” Bond smirked.  “Although I’ll be damned if I’ll let him get a glimpse of you naked,” he growled after a moment’s thought.

“Possessive bastard,” Q said fondly.  “Also, not a concern in the least.  I’m going to be machining parts today.  Not quite the task to be undertaking naked.”

Bond grunted in acknowledgement, his hand sneaking under Q’s shirt again to spread out against his sweat-damp back.  “Working on the garrote buckle?”  Q had an idea for a belt buckle that with the flick of a switch would only tighten and not loosen.

“The _tourniquet_ buckle,” Q corrected automatically, making Bond grin.  Q was always looking for ways his inventions could save the lives of his operatives, while Bond saw the killing purpose in each one.  It was quite an effective combination, actually.

“Besides, we’re out of milk,” Q murmured.

Bond groaned dramatically.  “I’m not going bloody _shopping_.”  

Q smiled against his chest.  “I’ll get it, you lazy bastard.  I want to cook tonight.  And I’ll pick up your coffee on the way.”

“You just want to get that ridiculous hot chocolate you like.”  Q’s rare indulgence on mornings like this was a truly extravagant hot chocolate from the coffee shop nearby, piled high with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.  “I could make that for you at home, you know.  I’m sure we could find some lovely uses for any leftover whipped cream.”

Q bit gently at Bond’s collarbone.  “Incorrigible.”

* * *

True to his word, Bond was standing at the sink in only a fresh pair of pajama bottoms, shaving, when he heard the scrape of the gate and then the front door opening and closing.  He half expected Q to wander in to the bathroom to deliver his coffee personally — the man seemed to have a particular affinity for watching Bond shave — but Bond was left to scrape the straight razor up his jaw in solitude.

He wet a flannel and wiped the last of the shaving soap from his face.  Only then did it strike him how silent the house had been.  Q hated drinking from takeout cups, he always transferred his hot chocolate to a ceramic mug — usually his favorite, the one with the Aperture Industries logo.  Bond hadn’t heard the clink of the mugs, or even the rustle of shopping bags and the opening and closing of the refrigerator as Q put the shopping away.

Bond threw the flannel aside, his pulse kicking up a notch.  He moved silently into the bedroom, snagging his Walther from the bedside cabinet on his way.  In three paces he could see every corner of the living space.  Q was alone in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop.

Bond lowered his gun, feeling foolish, but something about the situation still didn’t feel quite right.  Q seemed small and hunched, his back turned to Bond, his body unnaturally still for long moments as Bond studied him.  There was no sign of any takeaway cups or shopping bags.

“Q?” he said.

Q seemed to startle, wheeling around suddenly and taking a faltering step back.  Bond felt the cold clarity that came with a surge of adrenaline.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

Q’s eyes slid aside evasively, his hand running nervously through his hair before fluttering to his side.  “Nothing.  It’s...it’s nothing.”

Bond narrowed his eyes.  Q knew better than to try to lie to him, especially so poorly.  His grip tightened unconsciously on the gun as he tried to assess the threat and came up at a loss.

Q’s sharp eyes caught the incremental movement, flicking down to the Walther and then away again.

“You don’t need the weapon, James,” he said, his voice sounding brittle.  “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t have it right now, if you don’t mind.”

Bond’s confusion increased, and with it a jittery sense of concern.  Despite his history, Q was unquestionably comfortable with weapons.  He had never before expressed any uneasiness about Bond being armed.

Bond immediately flipped the gun around in his hand, holding it by the barrel before placing it on the coffee table, broadcasting every slow movement as he would in a hostage situation.  

Q had partially turned his back again but Bond could see the tension in his thin shoulders.  His breath was coming in uneven pants, his throat working as if he were struggling with some strong emotion.

Bond stifled the urge to run to him, instead circumscribing a slow half-circle into Q’s field of vision and then moving forward, stopping a few paces away.

“Tell me,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft despite the tension running through him like a wire.

Q’s eyes flicked up, his mouth twisting.  Both hands clenched the edge of the counter, white-knuckled.

“It’s stupid,” he said, his voice oddly flat.  “I’m being stupid.”

“You’re anything but stupid,” Bond said impatiently.   _“Tell me.”_

Q squeezed his eyes shut.  “I saw...him.”  He shook his head as if realizing that he wasn’t making sense.  “One of them,” he amended.

Bond felt it physically — his fear for Q turning to rage in a white-hot flash.  He looked toward his gun reflexively.

“Don’t,” Q said tightly.  He was looking at Bond now, his beautiful grey-green eyes damp behind the lenses of his glasses.

“Why not?”  Bond barely recognized his own voice in the icy growl.

“Because I don’t fucking _need_ you to!” Q spat.

Q forcibly unclenched his hands from the counter, pacing a few steps, his movement uncoordinated and jerky.

“Do you think that’s what I need from you?  To pull a fucking trigger for me?”

Bond shook his head, trying to control his anger.  “I would.   _Anyone_.  No questions asked.”

Q paused, rubbing his forehead.  Some of the frantic tension seemed to leave him.  “I know that,” he said quietly.  

He slumped back against the counter, looking at his feet for long moments.  When he finally lifted his eyes to Bond’s, shadows lurked in the grey-green depths.

“It’s been ten years, James.  Don’t you think if that’s what I wanted I would have done it by now?  I may not have known all their names, but I’ll never forget their faces.  Do you know how many keystrokes it would take me to find out _everything?_ ”  Q’s eyes were still fixed on Bond’s face but the cold distance in them sent a chill down Bond’s spine.  “A negligible amount.  Minutes of my time, at the most.  Where they are now, what they are doing.”

Q shrugged, his voice dropping to a low rasp.  “And then how many keystrokes more to send a bug down the wire?  To overload their gas heaters, to remotely disable the brakes on their cars, to drop an elevator ten stories?  Don’t think I haven’t thought of it.  I could do it without collateral damage.  I could do it _with my eyes closed._  I’m _that_ good.”

Bond believed it, unequivocally.  “You are.  You could.”  His words were more than an acknowledgement.  They were an offer.

Q’s mouth twisted again.  “That’s how Silva started, I expect.”  He pulled the electric kettle from the base and started to fill it, his movements automatic.  Bond watched, helpless, staying a deliberate distance away.  Careful not to touch, much as he wanted to.  Christ, but he wanted Q in his arms or his gun in his hand, preferably both.  He needed to do something.  He needed a target.

“Could he have followed you?” he finally asked as Q reached for a mug.

Q dropped his head.  The sound that escaped him was halfway between a bitter laugh and a sob.  “He didn’t even recognize me.”  He put the mug down, tilting his glasses up and scrubbing the heel of his hand across his eyes angrily before he picked it up again.

“I’m the fucking _Quartermaster_ of MI6.  I’m responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people.  I am calm in any crisis.  And yet I **froze** like a fucking _rabbit_.”  His voice was thick with self-recrimination.  “One look at him and I was a kid again, weak and terrified, and he — he fucking looked right _past_ me.”  So quickly Bond barely saw it, his arm whipped out, hurling the mug to the floor, both of them flinching as it shattered violently to pieces against the slate tiles.

Q stared down at the shards of his favorite mug, his chest heaving.  “That didn’t make me feel better at all,” he finally said, his voice wobbly now.

“Q,” Bond said helplessly.

Q took one halting step forward, and then another.  Each step took him closer to Bond, until finally he was in front of him.  He leaned in slowly, resting his forehead to Bond’s bare chest.  Slowly, so that Q could pull away at any time, Bond raised his arms, looping them loosely around Q’s shoulders.

Q sighed and shuffled in closer, his arms coming around Bond’s waist, his chin settling in the crook of Bond’s neck.  Bond slowly tightened his grip, uncaring as the frames of Q’s glasses dug into his cheek.

“I should have said something, or done something,” Q whispered.  His soft laugh was a horrible sound, bitter and broken.  “Pardon me, sir, but do you remember forcing me to suck your cock while your friends held me down?”  
Bond couldn’t help his flinch, and Q must have felt it.  

“Sorry,” Q whispered contritely.

“Don’t...”  That Q would apologize to him, worrying about _his_ feelings right now.  “Just...tell me what to do.”

Q let out a shuddering breath.  His voice was weary, tinged with fondness.  “There’s nothing to do, James.  Just...this.  This is good.”

Bond held Q tightly, rubbing his cheek against Q’s temple.  “There has to be more.”

“Like what?”  Q pulled back, searching Bond’s face.  “Revenge?  Justice?”  He seemed calmer now, resigned.  “Half of them are probably dead by now already, by their own or someone else’s hand.  A good lot of them were probably doing things that had been done to them by others.  There’s no solution to that — no magic fix.”

Q stepped in close again, his arms squeezing Bond a little too tightly.  “I survived.  I got out,” he murmured.  “I have a good life now.”  

Bond held Q tighter.  After all the horrors he had seen, across the years and bloody missions and dirt-poor nations — he knew better than most that life wasn’t fair.  That innocents were hurt for no reason, that good people suffered and monsters triumphed.  When it came to Q, though, he couldn’t quite manage to come to terms with that.  He wanted to pay back those who had hurt Q with blood and pain, but he knew that if he did so would be for his own sake, and not for Q’s.  He took in a deep breath through his nose, letting it out slowly, feeling Q relax incrementally as some of the tension left Bond’s body.  

Bond felt the barest brush of Q’s lips against his neck.  “I have _you_ ,” Q murmured against Bond’s skin.  “That’s — that’s all the justice to be had.”

* * *

Translation:

C'est si bon, James. = That feels so good, James.

J'aime ta manière de faire ça. = I love how you touch me.

J’en veux plus. = I want more.

S'il te plait, James. Plus fort maintenant. Plus vite. = Please, James.  Harder now.  Faster.

N'arrête jamais de me toucher. Tu me rends dingue. Je te veux tellement or J'ai tellement envie de toi  = Never stop touching me.  You make me crazy.  I want you so much.

Fais moi venir. = Make me come.

* * *


	32. The Compulsion

* * *

When the mission went to shit it went truly, undeniably, _spectacularly_ to shit.  As often as Q tried to run through it in his head — tried to determine how it could have been avoided if they had just done _something_ differently — there really was no answer.  

It all came down to simple, unforeseeable human failing — the petty greed and unbelievable idiocy of a local guide.  He led Bond and his asset into a trap, hoping to make his fortune, and ended up being repaid with a bullet to the head in the ensuing firefight.  

The jungle was dense and Q’s satellites were blind.  He was impotent — there was no tech to hack, no tactical support to give.  The retrieval team had been scrambled, and now all Q could do was listen in silent dread to the panting breaths and rapid gunfire and screams of pain as Bond struggled to protect the asset and fight his way through.  

The thud of a bullet hitting flesh and the low gurgle of pain was crystal clear in Q’s earpiece, causing him to grip his desk with white-knuckled hands, cold sweat prickling all over his body as his heart seemed to seize up in his chest.

“ _Fuck,”_ Bond said, low and fierce, and Q’s heart started again.  “Asset is down,” Bond gritted out.  A few more gunshots and the only sounds that could be heard were Bond’s rasping breaths and the stifled sobs of the injured asset.

He was a good man, the asset.  Bond had been traveling with him for two days now, and Q had been monitoring them the whole time.  Q felt like he knew the asset.  He _liked_ him, dammit.  He was brave, and pragmatic, and witty, and he had done absolutely nothing to deserve the utter shit of the situation he was in except to be brilliant in a field of research that made him highly desirable to very bad people.  

And now, Q leaned unsteadily against his desk and listened to Bond’s grunts and harsh breaths, the asset’s stifled sobs and moans.

“I don’t want to die,” the asset kept repeating between sputtering coughs and groans.  “I don’t want to die.”

“You’ll be fine,” Bond said, his voice utterly certain and completely reassuring, and Q knew instantly that it was a lie.

Q flipped a switch, turning off the audio feed to the rest of the branch to spare the minions.  He moved to his office and sat in silence, head in his hands, able to do nothing but listen as the asset died excruciatingly slowly, in pain and terror.  It was more than twenty minutes until the asset gasped his last shuddering breath and Bond’s murmured reassurances faded into grim silence.

Q waited as long as he could, his stomach churning, listening to Bond’s uneven breaths in his ear.  “James?” he finally asked quietly.

“Asset is dead,” Bond said, his voice detached and professional.  “ETA for retrieval team?”

Q fumbled for the nearest tablet with shaky hands, pulling up the retrieval team’s location in a few taps.  “Two hours still.  I’m sorry, it’ll take a helicopter to get in there, and Bangkok was the closest…”

“It’s fine,” Bond interrupted brusquely.  “All the hostiles are neutralized.  Send me the coordinates of the landing site and I’ll be there.”

“Uploading to you now.”  Q hesitated.  “James.  I’m sorry about…”

“007 signing off.”  

Q closed his eyes as the earpiece went dead.  After two days of having Bond in his ear, the silence was deafening. 

* * *

Bond drained the last of his scotch before the ice had even started to melt and signaled for another.  He saw the momentary hesitation in the bartender’s eyes before the man wisely decided not to push the issue.  

Bond knew how he probably looked — scruffy and bruised and jet-lagged, in a mismatched combination of mud-caked grey suit trousers and the camo shirt someone from the retrieval team had thrown him to replace his blood-soaked dress shirt and suit jacket.  

He pulled at the too-short cuffs a little before finally giving it up as a bad job.  He distractedly started to tuck in the tails, and with a sick jolt suddenly realized that his belt was still wrapped around the corpse of the asset.  He had tried to staunch the bleeding, but in the end he had only managed to prolong the man’s suffering.  Q’s clever buckle — ironically now Bond would never be able to think of it as anything _except_ ‘the tourniquet buckle’ — hadn’t stood a chance against a collapsed lung and internal bleeding.

 _Q._  Bond’s thoughts shied away from Q again as he took another long swallow of his scotch.  The asset had reminded Bond of Q in too many ways.  Not physically, and there had not been   even a shadow of the attraction Bond felt for Q, but there was no denying the other similarities.  Unabashedly brilliant.  Quick-witted and sarcastic.  Courageous.  Bond had fought tooth and nail to save him, and in the end it hadn’t mattered.  He had died in Bond’s arms as so very many others had before.

The bite of the scotch did nothing to numb Bond’s self-loathing or the inchoate rage that churned within him, just looking for a target.  Christ, he hadn’t even been the one to kill that fucking guide who had betrayed them.  He had failed, in every way possible.  Once again, everything he touched had turned to shit, and another bright young person — worth ten of him, no doubt — was dead.     

He was fucking cursed, there was no escaping it, and the thought that someday that curse might extend to Q — that it could be _Q’s_ life bleeding away as Bond held him in his arms, helpless to stop it...

For a moment the fear was so paralyzing, so real, that Bond’s mind blanked out, his throat closing up in panic.  He carefully set the scotch down on the bar and closed his eyes, inhaling slowly through his nose.

Q was safe.  Q was probably at home right this minute, wondering where in the hell he was.  Bond knew that Q would have been monitoring the moment his plane touched down, the moment his passport was scanned.  Hell, he had probably watched Bond getting into the taxi on the CCTV cameras, thinking that he was on his way home.  And Bond had panicked, asking the taxi to take him to this shit pub instead.

He couldn’t come home to Q, not in the state of mind he was in right now.  Q deserved gentleness, and caring, and right now Bond had nothing within him but rage and bitterness.  He was in the mood to smash, to _destroy_.  He would get a hotel for tonight, drink himself into a stupor, and try to explain it to Q in the morning.

He was still staring down at the grotty floor, trying to convince himself that he was making the right decision, when as if to mock him a pair of chequered trousers hove into view.  Bond cursed, heartfelt and low, as Q settled himself on the barstool next to him and ordered a scotch of his own.

The bartender eyed them both suspiciously but fetched Q’s drink and then diplomatically left them alone.  Bond sat in stubborn silence, refusing to acknowledge Q’s presence, and Q seemed content to wait indefinitely.  The silence dragged on as they sipped their drinks.

“I think you’re quite giving me a taste for the stuff,” Q finally remarked, swirling the remaining amber liquid in his glass.  

Bond brushed off Q’s attempt at casualness with irritation.  “How did you find me?” he snapped.  “I thought you only activate my trackers when I’m on mission.”

He could see Q tense instinctively at his tone, but his voice when he spoke was carefully bland.  “As if I need your trackers.  Your taxi had GPS.”

Bond grunted his acknowledgement.  Christ, he was acting like an arse and he knew it, but Q should know better than to seek him out when he was like this.

“I’m going to burn those damned trousers of yours,” he said pettily.

“Mmmm.  Are you going to strip them from me right now, or wait until we get home?”

The combined shock of arousal and anger had Bond gritting his teeth, knocking back the last of his drink before slamming the glass on the bar.  “What in the hell are you playing at, Q?”

Q took a careful sip of his drink, his tongue flickering out to lap a drip from the rim of the glass.

“Not playing,” he finally said, his voice carefully scrubbed of emotion.  “Let’s call it investigating.  Are you in this frankly depressing _hole_ because you actually need some time to yourself, or is this your completely misguided attempt to protect me from something you think I can’t handle?”

Bond couldn’t help it — his hand tightened convulsively on his empty glass, and Q tracked the movement with his sharp grey-green eyes.

“The latter, then,” he said.  “Interesting.”

Bond forcibly loosened his fingers from the glass before he cracked it.  “You don’t want to see me like this, Q,” he warned.

“No.”  Q’s voice was sharp, and he took a deep breath before continuing in a softer tone.  “You don’t want _to be seen_ like this.  There’s a difference.”  His slim fingers reached out, capturing Bond’s hand.  “Is that how it will be between us?  Only showing each other the parts we think we should?  I don’t think so.”

Q’s hand was small and soft and warm, _so_ warm, and the tenderness of his touch pierced Bond like a thorn.  It made Bond want to crush Q to him, to consume him and leave nothing behind.  He wanted to grind their bodies together until Q felt the imprint of Bond on his very bones, so that Q could never leave him, could never forget him.  Violence roiled and snarled just under the surface of Bond’s skin, and he yanked his hand away from Q’s.

“I’m going to go wash up.  Settle your tab and go home.”  He refused to meet Q’s eyes.  “I’ll see you later.”

He strode down the narrow passageway toward the kitchen, picking one of the small single washrooms at random, slamming and locking the door behind him.  He washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face, refusing to even meet his own eyes in the mirror.  

He carefully dried his hands and face before leaning back against the sink counter, staring blankly at the scarred wooden door.  He took in a deep breath and let it out in a slow exhale, trying to steady himself.  Hoping for Q’s sake that Q would be gone when he returned to the bar, and yet somehow bitterly disappointed at the thought that he might be.

Bond turned the latch and started to open the washroom door.  Q immediately slid inside the narrow gap in that quicksilver way of his, locking the door behind himself with a loud click.

“Bloody _hell,”_ Bond gritted out, barely controlling his natural defensive reaction in time.  He backed up a step, the counter biting hard into the back of his thighs.   

Q silently pulled a bottle of lube from his pocket and placed it carefully on the chipped formica counter, an open dare.

“You’re mad if you think —”

That was as far as he got before Q was on him, the full strength of his wiry body pressed against the length of Bond’s.  Their teeth crashed together and Q bit hard on Bond’s lower lip for a searing moment, before licking the wound.

Bond’s whole body stiffened in surprise, his hands gripping Q reflexively, and then Q was pushing forward with a low wordless sound, hands sliding under Bond’s untucked shirt to scratch up his back as his mouth covered Bond’s in a devouring, conquering kiss.

Bond growled into the kiss, blood singing with the taste of Q again after so long, hands pulling Q greedily forward until he caught himself.  He pushed Q roughly away, breathing heavily.

“What in the _fuck…”_ he started to say, but the words clogged up in his throat as Q started flicking the buttons of his own shirt open one by one, his grey-green eyes bright with challenge.

“You still think of me as weak, James.  Something to be protected.”  He shrugged the shirt off, his narrow shoulders glowing pale in the harsh washroom light.  “I’m not, and it’s time I proved it to you.”

Bond turned his back, his thoughts and words hopelessly tangled, aided not at all by the lust gathering hotly in his belly.  “It’s not — Q, you don’t want…”  He scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration.  

He turned around again, determined to push past Q and be done with this, and froze, his hands reaching behind him to grip the edge of the counter as his legs seemed to go unsteady beneath him.  Q was just kicking his pants free, the rest of his clothes already in a careless puddle at his feet.  

As Bond watched, his mouth dry, Q leaned his head back against the bathroom door.  He watched Bond through hooded eyes as his hand wandered down to stroke himself confidently.  Fuck, he looked positively _decadent_ — an endless stretch of flushed skin gleaming in the dingy little washroom.  Bond had seen Q playful and shy and even wanton, but this aggressive, almost _predatory_ Q was riveting, instantly transmuting Bond’s turmoil and frustration into raw, ungovernable lust.

He was in motion before he even realized it, moving to crowd Q back against the door.  Q’s languid demeanor disappeared instantly.  He sprang forward with surprising quickness, knocking Bond off balance and shoving him back against the counter in turn.  Bond grunted as his hands grasped Q, supple strength and warm skin flexing under his fingers as Q shoved again, _hard,_ sending Bond crashing back onto the sink counter in an awkward sprawl.

Then Q was practically climbing Bond, his teeth scraping across Bond’s collarbone, his long limbs everywhere.  Bond barely had time to push himself fully up on the counter, the wooden base cabinet creaking under his weight, before Q was straddling Bond’s lap.  He pulled at Bond’s shirt roughly, punctuating each popped button with stinging little bites to the tendons of Bond’s neck.

Bond’s hands grasped at Q’s skin, greedy for the feel of him, and he growled his frustration as Q tugged down on his shirt, tangling his arms in the sleeves.  He heaved and wriggled, freeing himself impatiently, as Q scrabbled at the flies of his trousers.

Finally Bond’s hands were free and he wound them into Q’s hair, pulling fiercely until Q’s mouth met his in a clash of teeth and tongues.  They vied for dominance, straining against each other, until Q pulled back.  With an almost feral noise he slid off the counter, landing lightly on his feet.  He pulled on Bond’s hips, sliding him forward on the counter so abruptly that his head hit the mirror with a crack, before muscling in between his thighs.  Then Q was biting his way down Bond’s torso, muttering intermingled imprecations and endearments as his deft fingers pulled Bond’s cock free of his pants and unfastened trousers.

Q’s head dipped down and Bond felt a cold shock of sanity drag him back from the edge.  Knowing Q’s past there were some lines he wouldn’t cross, even if Q were willing, and especially not like this.  

“No,” he snapped.  He wound his fingers in Q’s hair, pulling his head up as Bond slid off the counter.  With a quick twist he turned them both, pressing Q forward against the sink counter, Bond hard at his back.  Bond felt Q’s body instinctively freeze up for a moment, his back taut with tension against Bond’s chest, both of them panting.

“Look,” Bond rasped into Q’s ear.  Q raised his head and Bond felt his body ease as he took in the sight of them both, Bond’s face clearly visible over Q’s shoulder in the reflection.  Bond tugged back on Q’s hips, guiding his hands to the counter until he was half-bent, facing the mirror.  “Keep watching,” he growled.  “I’m going to take you _apart.”_

Q’s eyes were pinned to Bond’s as he seemed to deliberate for a moment, and then he nodded, a curt jerk of his chin.

“Good boy,” Bond purred.  He smiled inwardly as Q’s huff of protest turned into a high whine as Bond deliberately set his teeth to Q’s shoulder, biting firmly as his sweat-damp palm surrounded Q’s cock.  

Q rolled his hips into Bond’s hand, his eyes squeezing shut with pleasure.

“No.”  Bond’s hand stilled.  “You watch, or I stop.”

Q’s eyes snapped open again to meet Bond’s gaze in the mirror, the grey-green eyes sharp with ire behind his thick-rimmed glasses.  “Dammit, James…”

“Just like that.”  Bond bared his teeth in a humorless smile, pressing his cock up against Q’s plush arse as his hand started moving again.  He ground up against Q, hard enough so that Q was forced to brace his arms more firmly against the counter, pushing back against Bond’s weight.  Christ, Q was beautiful, the reflection of his torso in the mirror a pale, sinuous curve against the tanned and scarred skin of Bond’s chest.

“Bloody _hell,”_ Q groaned.  His arms were wiry with tension, tendons and muscles shifting beneath the luminous skin, the sharp wings of his shoulder blades pushed into even greater prominence by this position.  Bond’s eyes flicked back to the mirror, watching a soft pink flush creep slowly up Q’s chest as he twisted and writhed against Bond, torn between pushing forward into Bond’s hand or back to rub against Bond’s cock.

“Gorgeous,” Bond murmured into the nape of Q’s neck, placing another deliberate bite just there, tasting the velvety nap of Q’s skin.  “You wanted to see every part of me?” he rasped.  “You wanted to know what I’m like when I feel this way?  When I want to use you up, to crush you, to fucking _devour_ you?”

_“Yes.”_

Bond froze in surprise, his head lifting to meet Q’s eyes in the mirror.  The question had been rhetorical — merely a taunt — but Q’s response was utterly heartfelt, his stormy green eyes direct and sincere.  

There was such strength in Q’s vulnerability, such _power_ in the way he laid himself open to whatever Bond wanted and needed.  It pierced Bond like an arrow to the heart, and he had to hide his face, ducking his head to press his forehead between Q’s shoulder blades.  No one had ever trusted Bond like this, with everything they had.  It did strange things to Bond, tugging him in every direction at once.  Bond wanted to revere Q and to ravage him, wanted to cuddle him and corrupt him.

Bond swallowed thickly, pushing down the sudden upswell of emotion.  When he finally lifted his head again, Q’s eyes in the mirror were knowing, his smile tender.  “Come on, James,” he goaded in a low whisper, stirring his hips again.  “Make me _scream.”_

And Christ, Bond did his best, licking down the knobs of Q’s spine, nipping at the swell of his arse and the tender skin at the top of his thigh before spreading him open and licking into him, teasing him with fingers and tongue until he was writhing, utterly lost, begging for release.  Then he straightened up, curling his body around Q’s, bracing one hand on the counter.

He reached for the lube with the other hand, watching Q’s eyes follow the movement in the mirror even as his expression remained open and trusting.  Bond shook his head, answering the unasked question.  “No” he gritted out.  “Not now, not like this.”

Q pressed back against him, curving his spine in wanton invitation.  “You could.”  His face was flushed, tendrils of hair stuck to his damp forehead.  

“I know,” Bond gritted into Q’s shoulder.  Then he was slicking his cock, pushing up against Q’s legs as his slippery hand took hold of Q again.  He watched in the mirror as Q’s mouth parted, his eyes fluttering closed with sensation before he snapped them open again.  The head of Q’s cock was swollen and dark where it emerged from Bond’s fist.  Bond thrust slowly forward into the warm, close space between Q’s thighs, feeling Q’s muscles squeezing him tight, the curve of Q’s arse nestling snugly against Bond’s hips.  

 _Christ_ it felt good, it felt like coming _home_ , and Bond felt the pleasure building all too quickly, sharp and hot in his belly, spiking higher with every thrust.  Bond matched the hand on Q’s cock to the movement of his hips, working Q hard and fast, both of them watching raptly in the mirror until Q finally broke apart in Bond’s arms, his face suffused in ecstasy, shuddering and gasping as he spilled into Bond’s hand.

Bloody hell, Q was _beautiful_ , and Q was _his_.  Bond braced his arm as he felt Q’s body go pliant, holding Q steady with an arm around his chest as he put the full force of his weight into each snap of his hips — delicious friction and warmth and the smell and feel and taste of Q all around and against him.  Christ, it was good, so _achingly good_ , and Bond felt a deep swell of pleasure gather low in his belly, his ice-blue eyes watching them both in the mirror until he finally pushed forward with a final grunt and growled his own orgasm into the damp skin of Q’s shoulder.

They leaned together, gasping for breath for a moment.  Then Q was all supple sweetness as Bond turned him around, lifting him up to the counter and depositing him on Bond’s crumpled shirt before he leaned in to capture his mouth again.  Q hummed a happy noise into Bond’s mouth and Bond chased it with his tongue, pressing closer between Q’s spread legs.  

They kissed lazily for long minutes.  Bond could feel the dark compulsion within himself banked — less urgent but not fully extinguished.  He still needed more — more of Q, enough to drown both of them in sensation, until they had forgotten everything else but _this_.  Bond’s hands wandered greedily over Q’s skin — thumb rubbing at a dusky nipple, fingertips tracing the long line of Q’s flank, palm smoothing over the soft expanse of Q’s belly.  Still, Q made a surprised squeak when Bond’s hand traced downward, fingertips sliding in a soft caress over Q’s oversensitized cock.

“James,” Q said, the slightest edge of a question in his voice as Bond cupped his bollocks.  Bond gently kneaded the velvety skin before pressing his knuckles firmly against Q’s perineum, smiling into Q’s mouth as Q started to squirm underneath his touch.

“Yes, Q?” he purred, nipping at Q’s slightly pouting lower lip.

“You know what,” Q grumbled, as Bond began to palm his cock more firmly.  “You — ah! — you can’t possibly think, think that…”

“I absolutely can,” Bond said with confidence.

“But…” Q seemed to lose his train of thought, tilting his head further to expose more of his neck as Bond sucked a trail of kisses down the length of his throat, watching with satisfaction the little string of pink marks he left behind.  He wanted to mark every inch of Q’s body — with his teeth and with his tongue, with the press of his fingertips, with the scrape of his stubbled jaw over tender skin.  

He ducked his head, lapping at Q’s nipple.   Q hissed with pleasure, scrabbling briefly for a handhold on the edge of the counter as his back arched into the sensation.

“It’s incredibly optimistic of you,” he began, “But I don’t think —”

Bond stopped Q’s words with his mouth, kissing him hard and deep as his still-slick fingers traced back behind his bollocks, circling teasingly.

“Oh!”  Q’s surprise was delicious as he braced his arms, pressing seemingly unconsciously into Bond’s teasing touch.  “Oh, fuck — fucking _hell,”_ he muttered open-mouthed against Bond’s lips as Bond pushed in easily with two fingers.  And Christ Q opened up for Bond so sweetly, his eyes going wide and unfocused, his spine seeming to melt as Bond began a slow rhythm, fingertips gliding just shy of Q’s prostate.

“That’s it, love,” Bond murmured, licking the shell of Q’s ear.  “It’s almost too much, isn’t it?  A little too sensitive, a little too raw...just on the edge of too much, until suddenly —” he let his fingertips slide gently over Q’s prostate, catching Q’s breathy exclamation with his mouth “— it’s not enough.”

He was pressed in close enough that he could feel Q’s cock hardening against his hip as he worked his fingers in the tight space between their bodies.  Q was pushing forward now, breath coming in harsh pants against Bond’s neck as his hips stirred in little seeking thrusts, trying to draw Bond’s fingers deeper.  Bond kept his touch gentle but inexorable, a leisurely slide into the sweet warmth of Q’s body.

“James.”  Bond brushed Q’s prostate again and Q pressed his lips into Bond’s neck with a harsh, almost desperate sound.  “How do you _know?”_

Bond felt something welling up inside him, dark and primal and impossible to suppress.  “Because you’re _mine,”_ he growled.  “Everything, all of you.”  He wound his left arm around Q’s lower back, lifting his slim hips up into the next thrust of his fingers.  “I’m going to take it all.”

Suddenly Q’s hand was tight in Bond’s hair, pulling his head down fiercely into Q’s kiss.  Q was almost frantic, licking and biting at Bond’s lips, devouring his mouth until Bond finally tore away on a gasping breath.

Bond fell to his knees, hearing the breath punch out of Q’s lungs as Bond swallowed him down to the root.  Q was twisting and writhing, his thighs heavy on Bond’s shoulders, unable to get leverage as Bond worked him mercilessly with his fingers and his mouth.  

“I cant...I can’t…” Q was practically sobbing.

Bond pulled off.  His voice was harsh.  “You can.  You’re so close.”  He couldn’t look away from Q’s face, brow scrunched up as if in pain, his lips red and kiss-swollen, the marks of Bond’s kisses marring the stretch of his pale neck.  Christ, but he was so beautiful, looking at him sent a jolt of pleasure through Bond so keen that it bordered on pain.  “Give it to me,” Bond muttered, his teeth pressed to the inside of Q’s thigh.   _“Give it to me.”_

He sucked the head of Q’s cock back into his mouth as Q cried out, his whole body arching with tension.  Bond swirled his tongue, pumping his fingers mercilessly.  There was none of his usual finesse, nothing but the driving need to possess Q, completely and totally.  A few more rough thrusts and he felt Q start to contract around his fingers, his cock hardening impossibly more in Bond’s mouth before the first spasms washed over him.  

Bond fucked him through it with his hands and mouth, wringing shudder after shudder from Q’s exhausted body, only stopping when Q placed a clumsy hand in his hair, whining at the oversensitivity.  Bond finally drew off, resting his forehead against Q’s belly, gasping in rough breaths against the tender skin.

Q’s eyes were closed now.  He was slumped against the corner, his trembling legs dangling where they had fallen off Bond’s shoulders.  Slowly, achingly, Bond rose to his feet, feeling every rough year and brutal mission in the creak of his joints.  He skimmed his hand from Q’s knee up the length of his thigh before sliding it up his back, pulling Q somewhat upright and then forward.

With a soft hum Q slumped forward into Bond’s arms, his own arms winding against Bond’s waist, his face against Bond’s collarbone. Bond buried his face in Q’s hair and concentrated on breathing.  He felt lightheaded, his legs shaky, but Q’s soft warm scent soothed him.  The failure of the mission still rankled, but something about what they had done had exorcised the sharp edge of darkness that had threatened to consume him, leaving him feeling light and empty.  

He felt the pull of exhaustion now, his body swaying for a moment as his eyes started to fall closed, and he forced his eyes open.  

He wanted to ask if Q was all right, but suspected he’d get an earful if he did.  Instead he placed a gentle kiss on top of Q’s head, squeezing him tight one last time before reluctantly loosening his arms.

“Do you think the Met is waiting out there for us?” he murmured.

He could feel Q smile against his skin.  “Mmmm.  When I settled our tab I slid the bartender an extra two hundred quid to leave us alone.”

Bond shook his head, huffing with laughter.  “Sodding genius.”

Q finally lifted his head, flexing his spine in a sinuous movement before leaning back on his arms. His smile was soft and lazy.  “You can’t say you haven’t been warned.”

Bond made a noise of agreement, leaning forward for another soft kiss to that utterly decadent mouth.  When he pulled back again, Q’s smile had faded, his eyes serious now as they searched Bond’s expression.  “Home?” he asked.

Bond drew Q forward off the counter and into his arms, holding him tight as he found his footing on shaking legs.  “Home,” he agreed.

* * *

 


	33. The Leap (Epilogue)

“There’s another one around the next corner, approximately four metres down the hall.  Do not throw your Walther, 007, do you understand me?  Do _not_ throw your Walther.”

Bond flattened his back against the wall.  His eyes found the nearest CCTV camera, sending it a wink as he ducked around the corner, his right arm flashing forward.  “Why on earth would I throw my Walther when you’ve outfitted me with these lovely throwing knives?”  he purred as the knife landed in the guard’s chest with a satisfying thunk.

Q’s outraged huff clearly carried over the earpiece.  “Those were _prototypes_ , 007.  Did you actually nick those off my workbench?”

“Call it a field test.”

“Infuriating man.”  Bond smiled at the affection Q couldn’t keep from his voice even as he grumbled.  “I truly hate you sometimes, you know?,” Q quipped lightly before his voice became crisp and professional again.  “At the end of the hall, first right, one more flight up.  It’ll be the roof again.  That was the last guard, by the way, so it should be clear sailing from here.”

Bond raced around the corner, his smile widening as he pelted up the stairs.  He and Q had been dancing around each other for too long, both of them hesitant to take this final step.  What in the hell were they afraid of?  They both know how each other felt.  There was never going to be a perfect time for this, not for people like them.

“You don’t hate me, you know,” Bond observed between panting breaths.  “You _love_ me.  You are absolutely, positively, one hundred percent, head over heels, _hopelessly_ in love with me.”

Christ, even over the adrenaline of the mission he could feel his heart give an extra lurch at Q’s stunned silence on the other end of the line.

“Yes, well...” Q finally sputtered.  “Pot.  Kettle.”  Bond’s heart began beating again, warmth gathering in his chest.  

“Indeed,” Bond agreed, blood singing with elation as he jammed the roof access door shut with the hilt of his second throwing knife.  “One hundred percent.  Head over heels.   _Hopelessly._ ”

Q's voice was thick with emotion when he spoke again.  "Cheeky bastard."  He cleared his throat.  “Northwest corner, five metres to the adjoining roof, and then a fire escape twenty metres to your left.”

“Copy that.”  Bond ran, the asphalt of the roof crunching under his feet.

“Oh, and James?”

“Yes, Q?”

Q’s voice was warm and husky.  “Come home quickly.”

Bond grinned.  “I will.”  He was still smiling as he took a running jump and launched himself into the void, trusting — as always — that Q would lead him home.

* * *

[Author's Note:  Well, that's it dear readers -- thanks for sticking with me.  :-) Drop me a comment if you enjoyed the fic!]

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Quriosity (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10170875) by [Caveat_Lector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caveat_Lector/pseuds/Caveat_Lector)




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